























I 


fm 















t 







ingraved by H W Smith. 



AUTOBIOGRAPHY 


9 


AN ACTRESS; 


OK, 


EIGHT YEARS ON THE STAGE. 


ANNA CORA MOWATT. Hilckie 

- 


M Every family is a history in itself, and even a poem, to those who know how 
to read its pages." Lamartine. 


TWENTIETH THOUSAND. 


: 

BOSTON: 

TICKNOK AND FIELDS. 


M DCCC LIX. 




Entered, according to Act of Congress, in the year 1853, by 
Anna Cora Mowatt, 

In the Clerk’s Office of the District Court of the District of Massachusetts. 


PRINTED BY 
SAMUEL B. HOWARD. 


8TEREOT Y f'ED AT THE 
BOSTON STEREOTYf* FOUNDRY 


0 


INTRODUCTION. 


My autobiography needs no preface. Its 
apology is a promise, made to one who had the 
best right to demand such a pledge, that before 
I retired from the profession I had adopted I 
would publish a record of my life’s experiences — 
a promise now rendered sacred by 


“ The instinct 

Which makes the honored memory of the dead 
A trust with all the living.” 


If one struggling sister in the great human 
family, while listening to the history of my life, 
gain courage to meet and brave severest trials ; 
if she learn to look upon them as blessings in 
disguise : if she be strengthened in the perform- 

( 3 ) 




Entered, according to Act of Congress, in the year 1853, by 
Anna Coka Mowatt, 

In the Clerk’s Office of the District Court of the District of Massachusetts. 


PRINTED BY 
SAMUEL B. HOWARD. 


8TEREOT Y rED AT THE 
BOSTON STEREOTYf* FOUNDRY. 


u 


INTEODUCTION. 


My autobiography needs no preface. Its 
apology is a promise, made to one who had the 
best right to demand such a pledge, that before 
I retired from the profession I had adopted I 
would publish a record of my life’s experiences — 
a promise now rendered sacred by 


“ The instinct 

Which makes the honored memory of the dead 
A trust with all the living.” 


If one struggling sister in the great human 
family, while listening to the history of my life, 
gain courage to meet and brave severest trials ; 
if she learn to look upon them as blessings in 
disguise : if she be strengthened in the perform- 

( 3 ) 



4 


INTRODUCTION. 


ance of “ daily duties,” however “ hardly paid ; 11 
if she be inspired with faith in the power im¬ 
parted to a strong will , whose end is good ,— 
then I am amply rewarded for my labor. 

ANNA CORA MOWATT. 

Ravenswood, New York, 

December 7, 1853. 


CONTENTS 


CHAPTER I. P1 „. 

My Father. — Miranda Expedition. — My Mother. — Early Rec¬ 
ollections.— La Castagne. — Description of La Castagne by 
my Brother Charles. — Jour de Vendange. — St. Foy. — Fu¬ 
neral Solemnities of our Pets. — Les Compliments on the 
Anniversary of our Parents’ Birthdays. — A first Effort.— 
Othello in French. — My Debut. — Bourdeaux. — Embarking 
for New York. — Sea Voyage. — Shipwreck. — Loss of a 
Brother. — Description by my Brother Charles of Storm and 
Wreck. — Return to Havre. — Second Sailing, and Arrival in 
New York. — School Days. — Passion for Poetry. — Juvenile 
Doggerel.—First Words of Praise. — Boarding School- — 
Dramatic Representations at Home. — Performance of Al- 

zire. — Early Prejudices against Theatres. — Bishop E-n. 

—- Fanny Kemble.—First Visit to the Park Theatre. — Im¬ 
pressions. — The Misses Wheatley,.13 

CHAPTER II. 

My eldest Sister.—First Acquaintance with Mr. Mowatt.— 
Singular Impressions. —Sudden Project of educating a Child 
for a Wife. — Madam Chegaray’s School. — Alzire. — Attempt 
at an Offer frustrated. 7 —The first Love Letter.—A Refusal 
and a Consent. — My Father’s Stipulations. — A Wedding 
Party without a Bride. — Preparations for the Performance of 
the Drama of the Mourning Bride. — Effect of a Lover’s Mel¬ 
ancholy.— A Promise. — The Confidant. — Novel Mode of 
procuring and preparing a bridal Wardrobe. — Adventures.— 
Refusal of three Clergymen to perform the Ceremony. — A 
runaway Wedding. — Rencontre with a Father.—A Child 
keeps a Secret. — A Farewell. — Breaking the News. — “ The 
Bride’s Flower.” — The Pardon. — Bridal Celebration,... 41 

CHAPTER III. 

Studies. — Flatbush. — Purchase of Estate that had belonged 
to General Giles. — Haunted House.—My Sister May. — Our 
juvenile Sports and Mode of Life. — Number of Books read 
and commented upon every Year. — Shooting Excursions. — 

A first Sorrow. — Death of our Mother. — Melrose. — Sun¬ 
day School.—Fortune Teller of the Fair.— Pelayo. — Review¬ 
ers Reviewed. — Celebration of Seventeenth Birthday. — Bur¬ 
lesque Concerts.—Tableaux. — The Gypsy Wanderer. — Bri¬ 
dal Address. — Ill Health. — Departure for Europe,.... 61 

( 5 ) 




CONTENTS. 


6 


CHAPTER IY. 

Journal of a Week passed in London. — Olympic Theatre.— 
Madame Vestris. — St. Paul’s Cathedral.—The Tower. — The 
Tunnel. — Italian Opera. — Persiani. — Coliseum. — Zoologi¬ 
cal Gardens. — Hyde Park. — Madame Tussaud’s. — St. 
James’s Theatre. — House of Lords. — Westminster. — Brit¬ 
ish Museum. — Kensington Gardens. — Richmond. — Stand¬ 
ing “ in wait ” for the Queen. — Departure from London, . . 76 

CHAPTER V. 

Hamburg. — Bremen. — American Ladies supposed to be black. 

— Incident at a Dinner Party. — Bridal Address translated 
into German. — Usages and Manners of the Northern Ger¬ 
mans. — Dinner Parties. — Funeral Customs. — Betrothal 
and Bridal Customs. — Bremen Cathedral. — Peculiarity of 
the Vault. — Corpses four Centuries old in a State of Preser¬ 
vation.— Robbing the Student of a Lock of Hair. — Frei 
Markt. — Our Housekeeping in Germany. — Studies. — Ar¬ 
rival of Mr. Mowatt. — His long Illness. — Departure for 
Paris.88 


CHAPTER VI. 

Paris.—Unexpected Friends.—Visit to Hahnemann. — Mrs. 
Hahnemann. — Her History. — New Physicians. — Recovery 
of Sight. — Parisian Gayeties. — Description of Bfall at Col. 

T-n’s. — The Carnival.—General C-ss.—Rachel and 

her Sisters. —Facilities of Education in France. —American 
Copy of Parisian Manners. — Male and female Politicians. — 
Louis Philippe. — St. Germain Society. — Place de la Con¬ 
corde.— Place Vendome. —Place du Carrousel. —Fountains. 

— Arc de Triomphe de l’Etoile.— Tuileries.— Les Champs 

Elysees. — Bois de Boulogne. — Studies resumed. — Play for 
private Representation commenced. — Scenery painted in 
Paris. — Sailing for America,. 112 

CHAPTER VII. 

A Play without Heroes. — Rehearsals. — Incident in the Barn. 

— Gulzara, or the Persian Slave. — Publication of Play._ 

Critique from New World. Fondness for Speculations.— 
Loss of Property, and utter Ruin. — Musings in the Arbor. 

—My Sister Charlotte. — A Project. — Preparations for a new 
Career.—The last Farewell to a beloved Home,.132 

CHAPTER VIII. 

Boston. — Mrs. B-s. — A Ball-room Acquaintance converted 

into a stanch Friend. — Boston Friendships. — Morning at the 
Temple. — Heartsickness. — The old Doorkeeper’s Encour¬ 
agement.—My Father’s Letter. — Inherited Traits.—First 
Appearance in public. — Sensations. — A first Success. — Sec¬ 
ond and third Readings. — Lenient Critics. — Reading in Prov¬ 
idence. — The Missing Ship. — Readings in New York. — Fall- 






CONTENTS. 


7 


ing away of old Friends. — Reading at Rutger’s Institute for 
Young Ladies. — Readings at Society Library. — Illness. — 
Article in Ladies’ Companion. — Mrs. Osgood’s Poem. — 
Imitators. — Offer of Park Theatre. — Letter from Professor 
Hows,.. 145 


CHAPTER IX. 

Mesmerism. — The Phenomenon of Double Consciousness.— 
Somnambulic Incidents. — Townshend. — Miss Martineau’s 
Misuse of Mesmeric Facts.—First Acquaintance with the 
Writings of Swedenborg. — Influence of New Church Doc¬ 
trines.— Joining the Church.—Four Sisters also becoming 
Members. — Writings of my eldest Sister. — Letter on Mes¬ 
meric Somnambulism. — Revisiting former Residence. — 
Lenox.—The Sedgwicks. — Friendships with School Girls. 

— Getting up of Miss Sedgwick’s Play. — Crowning of their 
Stage Manager by the Scholars. — Conversations with Rev. 

Dr. William Ellery Channing. — The Future Life, .... 158 

CHAPTER X. # 

Contributions to Magazines. — The Fortune Hunter. — Miscel¬ 
laneous Bookmaking. — Evelyn. — Amusing Proposition from 
an English Publisher. — Singular Mode of violating a Copy¬ 
right. — Mary Howitt’s Mention of the three Orphans. — 
Little Esther. — Death Bed of the Mother. — One’s Neigh¬ 
bors. — Drive to Harlem. — Search for the Greys. — A blind 
Father. — Margaret. — Death of her Father and Mother.— 
Johnny and Willie,.184 


CHAPTER XI. 

Fashion. — Original of Adam Trueman. — Fashion accepted by 
the Park Theatre. — Interview with Mr. Barry. — Witness¬ 
ing a first Rehearsal unseen. — First Night of Fashion.— 
Success. — Second Rehearsal. — Author’s Benefit. —Fashion 
produced at Philadelphia. — Invitations from Managers of 
Walnut Street Theatre. — Their Liberality and Courtesy. — 
Witnessing Performance in Philadelphia. — Demand for the 
Author. —■"Failure of Mr. Mowatt. — Proposition that I should 
adopt the Stage.— A Change of Views. — Reflections. — 
Mary Howitt on the Members of the Profession. — A Deter¬ 
mination. — My Father’s Consent. — Contract with Mr. C . 
— Useless Remonstrances,. 


CHAPTER XII. 


Preparations for Debut. — First Rehearsal with the Company. 
— Stage Fright. — Star Dressing Room. — Call Boy’s Amuse¬ 
ment. — A Boast opportunely recalled.— Rising of the Cur¬ 
tain. — The Debut. — Second Appearance in public. — Wal¬ 
nut Street Theatre. — A distressing Incident. — Indignation 
of an Audience. — Painful Discovery. — Conclusion of En¬ 
gagement. — Fashion performed for Mr. Blake’s Benefit. — 
First Appearance as Gertrude,. 


219 






8 


CONTENTS. 


CHAPTER XIII. 

The first Year on the Stage. — Two Hundred Performances.— 
Amount of Study. — Lady Teazle’s untimely Drowsiness. — 
First Shakspearian Impersonation. — Difference between Re¬ 
hearsing and Acting. — Juliet’s Tomb. — Scene Shifter’s sepul¬ 
chral Prediction. — Novel Substitute for a sleeping Potion.— 
Death of Paris by a Novice. — Two Schools of Acting.— * 

Anecdote of a Stranger. — Mrs. Haller’s colored Descendants. 

— Incident in Charleston. — Address to the Charleston Vol¬ 
unteers. — Complimentary Entertainment in Savannah. — 
Relationship which Actors hold to each other,.233 

CHAPTER XIV. 

Mr. Davenport. — Accident in Baltimore. — Second Southern 
Tour. — Reading at Macon. — Columbus. — Montgomery.— 
First Acquaintance with Henry Clay. — His Recollections of 
Miss O’Neil. — His poetical Obliviousness. — Five Days on 
board of the Alexander Scott. — Clay’s Injunction to me as 
we passed Memphis. — Mr. Davenport’s Entertainment of 
Mr. Clay. — Personation of a “Down-east” Yankee. — Im¬ 
promptu Song to Henry Clay. — Arrival at Louisville — A 
last Farewell. — Opening of the Athenaeum at Cincinnati. — 
Inaugural Address. —Compliment to Mr. Davenport. — Close 
of my second Year on the Stage. — Armand. — A Sisterhood 
of Critics. — Mr. Mowatt’s Visit to England to arrange with 
Managers. — Mr. Macready’s Advice. — Engagement for Man¬ 
chester.— Production of Armand at the Park Theatre and in 
Boston. — Last Night in America. — Letters from Henry Clay. 


— Sailing for Europe.253 

CHAPTER XV. 

Arrival in Liverpool. — The Rev. Mr. S-n and Mrs. S-n. 


— Manchester Critics.—First Rehearsal at Theatre Royal, 
Manchester. — First Night in England. — Manchester Guar¬ 
dian.— Engagement at Princesses’ Theatre, London. — Dis¬ 
tressing Rehearsals. — The two Helens. — Miss Susan Cush¬ 
man.— Visitation from the Mistress of the Wardrobe.— 


Petty Miseries.—-The Trials of a first Night. — First Attack 
of “ Stage Fright.” — A near Approach to Failure. — Sudden 
Transition. — Success at the eleventh Hour,.267 


CHAPTER XVI. 

London Editors. — The Daily Times and the Earl of Carlisle.— 
Mr. Macready. — Personal Acquaintance and friendly Services. 

— First Engagement at Theatre Royal Olympic.—Lady of 
Lyons. — Reengagement in Conjunction with Mr. Brooke.— 
The Lords of Ellingham. — Accident on first Night’s Repre¬ 
sentation.— Mary Iiowitt. — Her Artist Daughter. — Camilla 
Crosland. — Poem. — Mr. Macready’s Farewell at Theatre 
Royal, Marvlebone. — Our Engagement. — Succession of Re¬ 
engagements.—Permanent Stars. — “ Shadow on the Wall.” 

— Armand produced in London. — Note from W. J. Fox, M. 





CONTENTS. 


9 


P., on the Morning of Representation. — His Critique in the 
Examiner. — Publication of Play. — Effect of Play Books in 
the Theatre upon Actors. — A Prompter’s Anecdote. — Pres¬ 
entation of Silver Vase. — The Witch Wife,.283 

CHAPTER XVII. 

Travelling. —Stratford upon Avon. —An Avon Boatman’s Ideas 
of Shakspeare. — Housekeeper of Warwick Castle, and Mrs. 
Siddons. — Isle of Wight. — Cottage at Richmond. — Vigor¬ 
ous Health. — Reopening of the Marylebone. — A Fairy-like 
Dressing Room. — Velasco. — Virginia. — Romeo and Juliet. 

— Close of the Season. — Entertainment upon the Stage. — 

A Ballet Girl nearly burned to Death. — Mrs. ltenshaw’s 
Presence of Mind and Heroism. — General Opinion of Ballet 
Girls. — A few Truths concerning the Profession. — History 

of Georgina, the Ballet Girl,.304 

CHAPTER XVIII. 

Illness of Mr. Mowatt. — Voyage to Trinidad. — New Olympic 
Theatre. — Powerful Company. — Abolishing the “Star Sys¬ 
tem.’’— Opening Night of the Olympic Theatre. — A Black- 
garbed Audience. — Refusal to appear in Mourning. — A 
white Compromise. — Inaugural Address written by Albert 
Smith. — Two Gentlemen of Verona. — Queen Adelaide’s 
Wardrobe. — Much Ado about Nothing. — Twelfth Night.— 
Othello.—The Noble Heart. — First Production of Fashion 
in London. — Critics. — Punch’s Rebuke to the Morning 
Post.—The Farce of Floral Showers. — Critique from the 
Sun. — Literary Gazette.—The Sentiments of Adam True¬ 
man hissed. —The American and English Personators of Pru¬ 
dence. — Mental Discipline of Actors. — Illustrative Sketches. 

— Mrs. Parker. — Mrs. Knight. — Three Histories,. . . . 318 

CHAPTER XIX. 

Ariadne. — English Version, by John Oxenford. — Closing Catas¬ 
trophe. — The three Ariadnes. — Leaping the Rock. — Marie 
de Meranie. — The Misanthrope. —Uxmal. — Lovers’ Amuse¬ 
ments. — Jealousy of Actors. — Afflicting Tidings. — Loss of 
Memory. — Disastrous Close of the Olympic Theatre. — 
Charge brought against the Manager. — Attack of Brain 
Fever. — First Consciousness. — Dr. W-tt’s Communica¬ 

tions.— The Manager’s Trial. — Conviction. — Insanity.— * 
Self-Destruction. — Mr. Mowatt’s Return to England.— 
Shorn Tresses. — Journey to Malvern,.332 

CHAPTER XX. 

Cottage at Malvern. — Malvern Hills. — Water-cure Establish¬ 
ment. — Donkey Rides. — Malvern Donkey Driver. — Adven¬ 
tures on Horseback. — Hanly Castle. — Return to London.— 
Skill of Dr. D-n. — A Sufferer’s Contemplation of Death. 

— Interview with Dr. D-n. — Life’s hardest Necessity.— 

A last Conversation. — The Parting,.342 






10 


CONTENTS. 


CHAPTER XXI. 

The Iron Duke. — Arrival in Dublin. — A Dilemma. — “ Unpro¬ 
tected Females.”— Interview with theatrical Housekeeper. 

— Hunting for Lodgings. — The invisible Avant Courrier. — 

Mr. Calcraft. — G. V. Brooke. — First Rehearsal. — Debut at 
Theatre Royal. — Dublin Audience. — Attachment of the 
Irish to America. —The Freeman’s Journal. — Production of 
Armand. — Peculiarities of the Dublin Pit and Gallery. — 
Persecution of an Actor. — An amusing Device.—My last 
Night. —Scene at the Stage Door. — Dublin Friends. — The 
Invalid in London. — Extracts from his daily Letters. — En¬ 
gagement at Newcastle upon Tyne. — Departure from Dublin, 351 

CHAPTER XXII. 

Recrossing the Channel. — Night on Deck. — Arrival at Liver¬ 
pool. — Carlisle. —Newcastle upon Tyne. — Mail Disappoint¬ 
ments. — First Rehearsal. — Its Interruption. — The three 
Letters.—Sad Announcement of the Third. — Mr. Davis.— 
Sudden Return to London. — The Death Bed. — Last Hours. 

— A dying Look. — The peaceful passing away. — Hospital¬ 
ities. — A Flower-decked Grave. — Floral Offerings of Friends. 

— Farewell Letters. — Last Wishes. — The last Adieu.— 

Provincial Tour. — Memoir by Bayle Bernard. — Return to 
America,.364 


CHAPTER XXIII. 

Accident on board of the Steamship Pacific. — Midnight Scene 
in the Cabin. — Arrival in New York. — Adventurous Night 
Journey to Ravenswood. — Rousing the Slumberers. — Meet¬ 
ings in the Dark. — Our second Mother. — The general Home. 

— Reunion of the ten Sisters. — A Christening. — Engage¬ 
ment at Niblo’s Theatre. — Acting and its Necessities.— 
Anecdote of Mr. Macready. — Mademoiselle Mars. — Conver¬ 
sation with Planche, the Dramatist. — His Advice. — Pro¬ 
fessor Hows. — Dramatic Studies. — Engagement at Boston, 
Providence, Philadelphia, Baltimore, Cincinnati, and St. 
Louis. — Letter from His Honor the Mayor of St. Louis, J. 

M. Kenneth. — Complimentary Benefit declined. — Proposed 
Christmas Festivities in Philadelphia. — A Family Gathering, 374 

CHAPTER XXIY. 

Waiting of the Steamboat Robert Rogers to take us on board. 

— Starting at Midnight.—Sudden Freezing of the Ohio 
River. — Cutting through the Ice. — The Boat frozen in. — 

A trying Predicament. — Conversation with the old Pilot. — 

The lunatic Sisters. — Unexpected Escorts. — Female Influ¬ 
ence over a Backwoodsman. — Journey in an Ox Cart.— 
Arrival at Evansville. — Courtesy of a Baltimorean. — Indi¬ 
ana Roads. — White River.—Ciossing the partially frozen 
River on Foot, by Starlight. — Vincennes. — Midnight Trav¬ 
elling on Foot through the Snow. — Major R-’s Joke.— 

Terre Haute. — A Stage selected through Presentiment. — 



CONTENTS. 


11 


Overturn of the other Stage. — Serious Accidents. — An 
aged Couple thrown over a Precipice. — The little Child.— 
Dayton. — Xenia. — Cleveland. — Alliance. — Salem. — Pal¬ 
estine. — Proverbial American Gallantry. — Pittsburg. - 
Christmas Day. — A Christmas Fast. — Alleghany Moun 
tains. — Descending inclined Planes. — Outskirts of Phil¬ 
adelphia. — Snowbound. — The Sisters. — A joyful Meet¬ 
ing, .385 


CHAPTER XXV. 

Retrospection. — The New Year’s Fete in Philadelphia. — Gul- 
zara, or the Persian Slave.—Its first Production at Melrose, 
and the present Representation. — My Father. — The acting 

of five Sisters. — Changes. — Dr. M-ll’s critical Opinion of 

Gulzara’s amateur Representative. — Richmond. — Snow¬ 
bound again. — A Repetition of Western Experiences. — Bal¬ 
timore. — Providence. — Boston. — Long Engagement. — 
Attack of Bronchitis. — Excursion on Horseback.—A seri¬ 
ous Accident. — Attending Circumstances. — Untimely tele¬ 
graphic Despatches. — Illness. — Letter from the Mayor and 
various distinguished Citizens. — Complimentary Benefit. — 

The Welcome. — Irrepressible Emotion. — Parthenia. — 
Wreath of natural Flowers woven on the Stage. — Reengage¬ 
ment in Boston, Cincinnati, and Louisville. — Funeral of 
Henry Clay. — Emblematical funeral Decorations. — Opening 
of the Metropolitan Theatre in Buffalo. — Inaugural Address. 

— An Architect’s Attack of Stage Fright. — The Prevalence 
of Bronchitis amongst Actors ludicrously exhibited at Re¬ 
hearsal. — Broadway Theatre. — A painful Engagement. — 
Baltimore. — Presentation of a Fawn. — A Star of Flowers. 

— Return to Boston. — Southern Tour. — Washington. — 
Richmond. — Mobile. — New Orleans. — Production of Fash¬ 
ion in New Orleans. — Ill Effects of the Climate, .... 400 

CHAPTER X X Y I. 

Departure from New Orleans. — Memphis. — The Promise to 
Henry Clay fulfilled. — First Appearance.—Actors’ habitual 
Disregard of physical Ailments. — Instance in London.— 
Anecdote of Mrs. Glover’s last Night. — My second Appear¬ 
ance in Memphis. — Struggle with Indisposition.— Unavoid¬ 
able Interruption of Play. — Malaria. — Journey eastward. 

— Acting for Mrs. Warner’s complimentary Benefit. — Sum¬ 
mer Intentions frustrated. — Serious and protracted Illness. 

— Removal to Ravenswood. — My Father’s House. — The 

distinguished Dr. M-tt. — Life’s Movement in a sick 

Chamber. — Summer. — Autumn. — Winter’s Approach. — 

The Pine Trees. — Sunsets. — Musings. — Cheerful Visit¬ 
ants to the little Chamber. — A Child’s Tribute to a Father. 

— Anticipated Recovery. — Proposed Farewell of the Stage. 

— Answer to a Question often asked. — Aristocratic Affecta¬ 

tion amongst the Profession. — Passion for the Stage. — A 
few Words" of Warning to the young Aspirant for dramatic 
Honors,.417 




12 


CONTENTS. 


CHAPTER XXVII. 

My Claims to offer a Defence of the Stage. — Lord Bacon on 
the Drama. — Sir Joshua Reynolds. — D’lsraeli. — The rude 
Attempts of Thespis. — JEschylus. — Existence of Theatres 
at the Time of the first Christian Era. — The Apostles. —St. 
Paul’s Quotations from three dramatic Poets. — The Parables 
and the Drama. — Dr. Isaac Watts. — The Emperor Marcus 
Aurelius upon the Stage. — Martin Luther.—»The Rev. Dr. 
Knox. — Philip Melancthon. — Lord Bacon. — Dr. Blair. — 
Sir Philip Sidney. — Dr. Gregory. —Sir Walter Scott. — Cal- 
craft. — Art. — Use and Abuse. — With whom it lies to 
reform the Errors of the Stage. — Two Hundred clerical dra¬ 
matic Authors. — Dramas of the Archbishop Gregory Nazian- 
zen ; of Apollinaris, Bishop of Laodicea. — Sir Thomas More. 

— Tragedies of Milton, of Dr. Edward Young, of Rev. H. 
Miiman, Rev. Dr. Croly, Addison, Dr. Johnson, Coleridge, 
Thomson, Goldsmith, Miss Hannah More, Miss Joanna 
Baillie, Miss Mitford. — The Stage: Pope’s Exposition of 
its Use; Crabbe’s ditto ; Shakspeare’s. — My own Experience. 

— The true Position of Actors. — Their Rank in ancient 

Times. — The high social Position held by many Actors in 
the present Time. — A Word of Farewell to the Members 
of the Profession. — These Memoirs,. 


428 



AUTOBIOGRAPHY OP AN ACTRESS 


CHAPTER I. 

My Father. — Miranda; Expedition. — My Mother. — Early Recollec¬ 
tions .— La Castagne.—Description of La Castagne by my 
Brother Charles. — Jour de Vendange — St. Foy. — Funeral 
Solemnities o f our Pets. — Les Compliments on the Anniversary of 
our Parents' Birthdays. — A first Effort. — Othello in French. — 
My Debut. — Bourdeaux. — Embarking for New York. — Sea Voy¬ 
age. — Shipwreck. — Loss of a Brother. — Description by my Broth¬ 
er Charles of Storm and Wreck. — Return to Havre. — Second 
Sailing, and Arrival in New York. — School Days. — Passion for 
Poetry. — Juvenile Doggerel. — First Words of Praise. — Board¬ 
ing School. — Dramatic Representations at Home. — Performance 

of Alzire. — Early Prejudices against Theatres. — Bishop E - n. 

— Fanny Kemble. — First Visit to the Park Theatre. — Impres¬ 
sions. — The Misses Wheatley. 


My father, Samuel G. Ogden, of New York, was the 
son of an Episcopal clergyman. For a number of 
years my father’s name was prominent in the communi¬ 
ty as that of a successful merchant. He was the capi¬ 
talist in the celebrated Miranda expedition, which was 
designed to liberate South America. This expedition 
owed its failure to the treachery and ambition of Aaron 
Burr, who, finding his own views interfered with, be¬ 
trayed his friend Colonel Smith, and informed the Spanish 
minister at Philadelphia of the purposes of the expedi¬ 
tion. The minister sent to the Spanish main a Balti- 

13 


14 


AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF AN ACTRESS. 


more clipper, which gave warning to the authorities. 
Two Spanish brigs-of-war were despatched to intercept 
the expedition. An action took place between these 
brigs and the ship Leander, belonging to my father, and 
two schooners. The schooners were captured, a portion 
of the men hung, and the rest imprisoned. Gen. Mi¬ 
randa, who was on board of the Leander, beat off the 
two brigs of war — went to Trinidad, got reenforce¬ 
ments, and with four hundred men took possession of 
the town of Coro, on the Spanish coast. He remained 
there ten or twelve days, and only retreated because he 
found the inhabitants not prepared to join him. Colonel 
Smith (the son-in-law of President Adams) and my 
father were prosecuted for having fitted out an expedi¬ 
tion against a power in amity with the United States. 
The trial was a highly interesting one. Thomas Addis 
Emmet, Cadwallader D. Colden, Josiah Ogden Hoff¬ 
man, and Richard Harrison were their counsel. Th6 
defendants jf^re honorably acquitted. Although this 
expedition failed, it was the first blow struck for liberty, 
and led to the subsequent independence of South Amer¬ 
ica. Bolivar himself made this declaration, and ex¬ 
pressed a readiness to compensate my father for his 
heavy losses. 

My mother, Eliza Ogden, was the daughter of Fran¬ 
cis Lewis, and the granddaughter of that Francis Lewis 
whose signature is affixed to the Declaration of Independ¬ 
ence. 

My earliest recollections are of a beautiful old coun¬ 
try seat, called La Castagne, and situated two miles 
from Bourdeaux, in France. My parents were residing 
in Bourdeaux at the time of my birth, but removed to 
La Castagne when I was only a few months old. My 


LA CASTAGXE. 


15 


father’s commercial transactions caused him to pass some 
ten years abroad. During this period four daugh¬ 
ters were born, of whom I was the second. 

I have dim but most delightful remembrances of La 
Castagne, which come to me like half-forgotten dreams. 
I remember a magnificent terrace, where we children 
used to frolic — a beautiful walk, called “Allee d’Amour,” 
lined with tall trees, whose branches met and formed a 
bower over the head — a large pond, surrounded with 
statues, and filled with fishes, which it was our daily de¬ 
light to feed — a gayly-painted pleasure boat, always 
floating on the pond — a grotto, called “ Calypso’s Grot¬ 
to”— a miniature waterfall, our great wonder and ad¬ 
miration — the whole place a very Eden of fruits and 
flowers. 

The following description of La Castagne is furnished 
me by my brother Charles, to aid my imperfect recol¬ 
lections of the beautiful spot that we first called “ home.” 

“ Though so many years have passed since we dwelt 
there, I find no difficulty in picturing to the mind every 
scene of La Castagne, that delightful residence of our 
earlier years, where life was one joyous holiday. I only 
fear I may fail in the description you request of me. 

“ La Castagne is situated in the parish of Begles, 
about two miles from the gates of Bourdeaux. Its name 
was derived from a row of large horse-chestnut trees, 
which are thus called in patois, and which spread along 
the little stream that formed the boundary of one of the 
sides of this elegant country seat. The whole property 
extended over about thirty acres, situated on a sloping 
ground, at the foot of which ran a beautiful rivulet, 
that separated it from the adjoining residence; all the 
rest was enclosed by a high stone wall of eight feet. 


16 


AUTOBIOGRAPHY OP AN ACTRESS. 


u The dwelling, or chateau, which contained twenty-two 
rooms, and was built of stone and brick, was on the 
highest part of the ground, and overlooked a pleasant 
landscape ; in front was a beautiful jar din Anglais , of 
considerable extent, and comprising every variety of rare 
floral productions — the magnificent tulips especially 
are still fresh in my mind. In the centre of this was 
‘ a bower of lovely form,’ which was the frequent even¬ 
ing resort of our assembled family; and running the 
whole length of the chateau and flower garden were 
several rows of shady platanes , or plane trees, whose 
smooth bark had been often disfigured by the carved 
ditties of loving swains. The whole formed a level ter¬ 
race of about four acres ; and a stone abutment encircled 
one side of it, which was elevated twenty feet from the 
gardens below. In the rear of the main dwelling was 
an extensive lawn, around which were situated the out¬ 
houses, also of stone, and comprising first the dwellings 
of our peasants, then the wine buildings, stables, and 
granaries, which formed two sides; and on the third 
side were extensive accommodations for poultry, whose 
dwelling, surmounted by a fanciful pigeon house, was in 
a yard furnished with cherry trees for their especial 
benefit. There were also an aviary and apartments 
for rabbits, guinea pigs, and other small quadrupeds. 
Extending from the rear of these buildings were eleven 
acres of vineyard, from which were made annually 
about thirty casks of wine ; then, by the side of the avia¬ 
ry, but below the terrace, was an extensive orchard, which 
furnished in abundance every variety of delicious fruits 
of that sunny clime. Immediately adjoining was a 
large vegetable garden ; and the whole remainder of the 
lands consisted of parks, fields, and meadows, enclosed 


LA CASTAGNE. 


17 


by beautiful alleys cultivated with great care. One of 
these, the ‘ Allee Antoinette,’ was particularly curious; 
the trees, regular on each side, and uniting in an arch, 
were trimmed so artistically that scarcely a leaf ven¬ 
tured to grow beyond its limited barrier. Here no ray 
of sun could penetrate on the warmest day. And then 
there was the ‘ Allee d’Amour,’ another romantic walk, 
besides a number of others, partaking of the same 
peculiarity, and affording shade in almost every direc¬ 
tion. At the foot of the slope were a cluster of trees, 
and a ‘ bosquet ’ of wilder character than the rest, and 
this was called ‘ Calypso’s Grotto.’ In the centre, cov¬ 
ered with green moss, were seats, one more elevated 
than the others. In the quiet of this secluded spot — 
no sound to break its sylvan solitude but the warbling 
of wild birds, who in happy security had chosen this fa¬ 
vorite home, and the constant murmur of a cascade in 
the rivulet I have already mentioned, which flowed be¬ 
neath the grotto — one could almost fancy that Calypso 
with her nymphs had indeed dwelt there, and there sat 
listening to the grave Mentor, whilst her eyes were 
beaming with love for the youthful Telemachus. 

“ But I must not forget one of the chief beauties of La 
Castagne, its whole length being traversed by a water¬ 
course, originating in a clear and beautiful spring, cov¬ 
ert d over with an arched dome of masonry; a lovely 
place that Narcissus might have made his constant re¬ 
sort, surrounded as it was with beautiful lilies, which, 
reflected in the limpid fountain, seemed to remind one 
that the melancholy youth had in truth been there, and 
there pined away. The water thence flowed through a 
stone canal to a circular pond of considerable depth. 
This place, called the ‘ lavoir,’ was devoted to useful pur- 
2 


18 


AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF AN ACTRESS. 


poses, and was the particular resort of ducks and wash¬ 
erwomen. Thence a canal led across the gardens to the 
opposite extremity of the grounds, where it emptied 
into another and more extensive pond, forming a sheet 
of water of about four hundred yards in length, and one 
third the breadth. But this was devoted exclusively to 
pleasure. Its banks were supported by stone work, and 
ornamented with statuary of much taste. A sailing boat 
was ever ready for water excursions ; and several weep¬ 
ing willows afforded a pleasant shade for the angler. It 
abounded in various species of fish, particularly the carp. 
Running through a diminutive forest, the water thence 
emptied into the rivulet spoken of before. 

“ During our residence at La Castagne there was but 
one winter cold enough to form ice in the pond: this 
once it lasted several days, and afforded good skating — 
a recreation quite novel to the denizens of Bourdeaux. 
La Castagne became then the resort of most of the 
English and American residents of the city, and the 
pond presented a scene of liveliness and fashion seldom 
equalled. There were good skaters even among the 
ladies; and our southern neighbors of Begles were par¬ 
ticularly charmed with this rare sport. 

“I will not undertake to describe the many joyous 
scenes of our country life, such as the harvesting, the 
May day and birthday festivals, or our Christmas 
frolics; but one of these annual customs deserves a 
passing notice, and that is the ‘ vendanges/ or wine¬ 
making. It was usual in the month of September, ac¬ 
cording to the maturity of the grapes, to fix a day when 
our neighbors were all informed that our ‘ vendanges ’ 
would commence. When this day arrived, the peasants 
of all neighboring country seats flocked to La Castagne, 


JOUR DE VENDANGE. 


19 


and all were diligently employed in the business of wine 
making. The women and a portion of the men sallied 
forth merrily into the vineyards with their baskets, and 
carefully gathered the grapes. As each basket was filled, 
it was brought in on their heads, balanced as only these 
peasants can balance their burden; and there was an 
actual emulation as to which could most frequently re¬ 
turn with his or her basket filled. Another portion of the 
men would be occupied in pressing, or rather trampling 
the grapes. Barefooted, and their trousers rolled up, 
they danced about in a large reservoir, which was the 
receptacle of the contents of each basket as it succes¬ 
sively arrived ; and the gleeful song kept time with the 
wine-stained legs, as the juice of the grape flowed 
beneath the tuneful tramp. Often have I joined this 
merry party, and, barefooted, helped to express the wine. 
The advantage of using feet is, that they yield to the 
stem and seeds, and the grape only is crushed, without 
their bitterness mixing with the pure juice. From this 
reservoir the wine is constantly carried into large cuves , 
where it undergoes fermentation, and is in time further 
prepared for the table. This gay scene with us usually 
occupied three days, and all who came to assist were 
entertained with a plentiful collation, served on! long 
tables on the green lawn, where the day was closed with 
the happy peasants’ dance, the fiddler being a regular 
attendant at each ‘ vendange.’ As the neighboring es¬ 
tates each had in turn their festival, our peasants went 
to assist them, and were treated with the same joyful 
cheer till the round was completed. 

“ Next to La Castagne, some of our pleasantest remi¬ 
niscences are of St. Foy, a small fortified town, encircled ‘ 
by a high wall, with its ancient cathedral, and its anti- 


20 


AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF AN ACTRESS. 


quated college, and situated on the romantic banks of 
the limpid Dordogne.” 

We had numerous pets at La Castagne, and those- 
I can well remember. The ones most prized by me 
chanced not to be of a very poetical class — no other 
than certain young families of guinea pigs, whose num¬ 
ber had an indefinite increase. Fortunately there were 
deaths now and then amongst them; and I have a very 
distinct recollection of the funeral obsequies paid to these 
beloved favorites. We were then five brothers and 
six sisters. We used to form ourselves into a proces¬ 
sion of mourners. Two of the boys carried on their 
shoulders a rude box for a coffin, containing the dead 
body of the favorite covered with a white pall, over 
wdiich were strewed fresh flowers. The procession was 
headed by our third brother, Charles, who carried a 
huge bell, which he tolled with considerable violence as 
the' procession moved on. At the grave the box was 
placed in the earth, and the bell toller, who was quite 
celebrated amongst us for his powers of oratory, deliv¬ 
ered a flowery and moving address, to which we lis¬ 
tened with profound attention, making all due efforts to 
shed tears at the proper places. The earth was then 
shovelled in, and we all ran off to play, or perhaps to 
look forward w ith some excitement to the decease of the 
next favorite. 

We had one custom among us — I presume of 
French origin — which has also left a deep impression. 
On the anniversary of the birthday of our parents, we all 
assembled early in the morning to await their entrance 
into the breakfast room. Every child had some little 
cadeau to offer. The elder ones generally presented 
scrolls containing verses, — sometimes copied, sometimes 


DRAMATIC REPRESENTATIONS AT HOME. 21 


original, — and the younger ones bouquets of violets. 
The verses were inscribed on large sheets of paper, 
surrounded by drawings of wreaths of flowers and other 
devices, and were styled “ les compliments.” When our 
parents appeared, we went up to them in turn, according 
to our ages, proudly offering our “ compliments” and 
receiving kisses and words of encouragement in return 
— praises which made that day a jubilee. I remember, 
when I could not have been more than five years old, 
growing very weary in the effort to copy verses in a 
large, round hand, to be presented on one of these birth¬ 
day anniversaries. After a deal of blotting and scratch¬ 
ing, and beginning anew, they were finished at last. I 
can see them now as they lay before me, written on a 
huge sheet, nicely rolled up and tied with gay ribbons, 
ready to be offered. Baby, almost, as I was, I expe¬ 
rienced a sensation of pride and delight which has not 
often been surpassed in after years. 

The performance of private plays seems to have been 
the favorite amusement of my elder sisters and brothers. 
I can only remember one of these occasions — the one 
on which I made my own debut. The play represented 
was Othello, translated into French. My eldest sister 
enacted Desdemona; my eldest brother Othello; the 
second sister Emilia; the second brother Cassio, doil** 
bling the part with that of the uncle; the third brother 
Iago, doubling the part with that of the judge. The 
other brothers and sisters filled the remaining characters. 
In the French version, however, the dramatis personce 
are not the same as in the Othello of Shakspeare. The 
variations from the original text are, in some instances, 
of the most comical nature. 

A difficulty occurred about the judges in the trial 




22 


AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF AN ACTRESS. 


scene. Our dramatic corps proved insufficient to furnish 
judges. To supply this vacancy, the four younger chil¬ 
dren were summoned, dressed in red gowns and white 
wigs, made to sit on high benches, and instructed to pay 
great attention, and not to laugh. Of these children I 
was the youngest; and at four years old, in the sedate 
and solemn character of a judge, upon a mimic stage, 
I made my first appearance in that profession of which 
it was the permission of divine Providence that I should 
one day in reality become a member. 

The festivities of that night were in honor of my 
father’s birthday. The evening commenced with the 
christening of the youngest child. The play succeeded, 
and a ball closed the night, or rather ushered in the 
morning. On the same night a similar version of 
Othello was enacted at the Theatre Royal by Lafont 
the successor of the great Talma. One of our friends 
attended both representations. The Iago of our troupe 
confidently asked this gentleman whether the perform¬ 
ance at the Theatre Royal at all approached our home 
delineations. The exact answer returned is not on 
record; but the ambitious young questioner presumed 
that there could be but one reply. 

I cannot recollect the performances of my elder 
brothers and sisters, but I have heard that they dis¬ 
played remarkable dramatic talent. This talent does 
not appear to have been inherited. My father merely 
appreciated theatrical performances without having a 
passion for them; and my beloved mother was brought 
up in a school too rigid to inspire any particular love 
for the stage. She enjoyed a good play in common with 
other persons of cultivation and taste; but never joined 
in any private performance, nor appeared very fre- 


EMBARKING FOR AMERICA. 


23 


quently at a public. I have often tried to discover the 
source whence sprang the power of representation 
which seems to run through one branch of the family, 
but without success; nor can my father throw any light 
upon the subject. 

Before leaving France, the family removed to Bour- 
deaux. But I can scarcely call to mind that city. I 
only remember the public gardens where we used to 
play; fhe deep, grass-covered hollow in their centre, 
called le bassin, around which we daily danced, in a ring, 
with a host of little French childre'n ; and I recollect 
some of our merry French games, but nothing else. 

I was in my seventh year when we embarked from 
Bourdeaux for New York in the ship Brandt. Even at 
this day I cannot think of that dreadful voyage without 
a shudder. The terrible crash with which we were 
early one morning waked from sleep still sounds in my 
ears. The ship was pitching so violently that we chil¬ 
dren could scarcely hold ourselves in our berths. One 
little sister was thrown out and bruised against the 
great dinner table. The water was pouring down the 
companion way, and threatening to flood the whole 
cabin. 

My brother Charles, at my earnest request, furnishes 
me with his recollections of the voyage and shipwreck, 
which I insert: — 

“We left St. Foy to join the remainder of the family 
on our return to America. We sailed’from Bourdeaux 
in the ship Brandt, Captain Steinaur; and on the 17th 
September we left the river, and passed the 4 Tour de 
Cordovan,’ at the mouth of the Gironde, a place we had 
before visited in some of our summer excursions to the 
sea shore. The ‘ Tour de Cordovan ’ is built on a rock 


24 


AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF . AN ACTRESS. 


far out in the sea, and for six months of the year is often 
unapproachable, on account of-the boisterous waves that 
wash its base: the family living there, and who have 
charge of the revolving light, have then no communica¬ 
tion with the external world for a length of time. In 
summer the rock is dry, and is often visited. The 
building, which is of square stone, was erected during 
the reign of Henri IV., and is four hundred feet above 
the level of the sea: the lower part contains apartments 
for every sort of artisanship; and a spiral stairway of 
three hundred and sixty-five steps, relieved at intervals 
by large Gothic chambers, conducts to the top, where 
one can examine the curious mechanism of a revolving 
light of intense brilliancy, that sends its warning for 
many and many a league to the adventurous mariner in 
that fearful Bay of Biscay. On one side the view ex¬ 
tends far over the fertile valley of the Gironde, whilst 
on the other it reaches only the infinite blue of this 
turbulent bay. 

“We had the usual quantity of storms and boisterous 
weather in making our way out of the Bay of Biscay. 
The Brandt was a good ship, though perhaps too deeply 
laden. There was a large saloon on the after deck, 
where all our meals were served, and which was our 
social hall. Our family on board consisted of our 
parents, seven sisters, (one of whom was married,) and 
three brothers. There were, besides these, other pas¬ 
sengers. 

“ On the afternoon of the 30th September, being then 
nearly off the Western Islands, we experienced a tre¬ 
mendous gale from the north-west. That evening we 
were all assembled in the saloon for the last time. All 
night the storm continued with increasing violence. On 


SHIPWRECK. 


25 


the 1st of October, our two younger brothers, (one ten, 
the other twelve years of age,) who slept in the state 
room with me, having, like all on board, spent a restless 
night, rose at dawn of day, and went on deck. The 
officer on dttty bade them not remain there; and they 
went into the saloon, where it was thought there was at 
least safety. 

“ At about half past six there was a terrible, deafening 
crash ; the sound of which, breaking upon drowsy ears, 
still reverberates in my mind. The vessel had been 
struck on the larboard bow by a tremendous wave, 
which, crossing her from stem to stern, rent up every 
thing, and completely swept our decks, whilst it threw 
( the ship with her beam ends in the sea. The caboose, 
longboat, and water casks, cables, and every thing amid¬ 
ships, her bulwarks, and every particle of the saloon, 
were violently shattered and washed away, and the deck 
around the companion way and forecastle hatch com¬ 
pletely torn up, making the whole ship a wreck indeed. 
The masts alone were uninjured. Fortunately she soon 
righted.* 

“ My fir&t thought was, of course, for my brothers, 
knowing that they had gone on deck ; and as soon as 
possible, I rushed, half clad, up the companion way. 
Here a scene of desolation presented itself that I should 
in vain attempt to describe. The naked decks, with 
nothing but the masts standing, the rigging flying in 


* “ To give some idea of how completely the vessel was thrown 
down, I will mention that a stack of hay that was on deck was 
found, when the ship righted, in the main yard, having been picked 
up out of the sea; and another circumstance: one of our sisters, 
who slept in a square state room on the windward side, was thrown 
from her berth into that of the sister opposite, and without injury.” 


*26 


AUTOBIOGRAPHY OP AN ACTRESS. 


every direction, the bulwarks destroyed, and presenting 
no barrier to the sea, which, with every roll of the 
vessel, washed over the deck and down into the cabin; 
then the waves, mountain high, and foaming with fury, 
that seemed every moment to threaten destruction; 
whilst the gusty blasts, howling through the rigging, 
were a fit dirge for the impending fate. 

“I could not reach the deck. Struck with awe and 
wonder, I looked around for some living being to tell 
me of my brothers. Too soon, alas ! the sad tale was 
revealed. A sturdy seaman, (our second mate,) whose 
honest heart had made him a favorite with us, was seen 
cramped to the rigging, about midships, and drawing 
something out of the sea. Presently our youngest 
brother appeared, and as the mate reached me, and 
placed his almost inanimate form in my arms, he pointed 
astern, and said, 1 The other is lost! ’ I looked, and on 
a crested billow, fast receding, and already far from us, 
I caught a momentary glimpse — the last of poor Ga¬ 
briel ! I subsequently learned from the mate, that, when 
the vessel first righted, he saw Gabriel in the sea, having 
hold of a fragment of the jollyboat. He seized a rope 
and threw it to him. The boy let go his boat, and swam 
to the rope; but it sank before he could catch it. He 
then turned to his boat again, and was beyond the 
reach of assistance before any could be rendered. The 
mate then saw the youngest brother, also overboard, and 
clinging to the main sheet, which was hanging over 
the side, every roll of the vessel taking him under 
water. His effort to save him was successful, though to 
loosen his hold he had much difficulty. 

“ Besides these, five men were washed overboard, but 
were all providentially saved by the effects of a counter 


SHIPWRECK. 


27 


wave, and but two seriously injured; one had broken 
his leg. 

“ A sad« duty had now devolved upon me, as I ap¬ 
peared below with the half-drowned boy in my arms, 
and met the affrighted members of the family, who by 
this time had collected in the main cabin. To their 
anxious inquiries, and to those of a distressed mother, it 
was my painful task to repeat the awful words of the 
brave sailor, ‘ The other is lost! ’ I cannot depict the 
anguish of that moment: though our cabin was deluged 
with water, and threatening danger seemed each instant 
about to hurry us all into eternity, one loud lamentation 
for him, who perhaps had only for a brief period ‘ gone 
before,’ escaped every bosom, and sorrow absorbed the 
sense of peril. But all thoughts now turned to the fond 
mother, whose agonized heart more keenly than any 
other felt this poignant loss. 

‘ Her big swol’n grief surpassed 
The power of utterance; she stood aghast; 

Nor had she speech, nor tears to give relief; 

Excess of woe suppressed the rising grief.’ 


“ Throughout the day the storm continued with un¬ 
abated fury. Our disabled vessel lay to, the sport of 
every wave. For a while we scudded. As night set in, 
she was again struck by an immense sea, which, taking 
her in the stern, stove in our dead lights, and deluged 
the cabin again; whilst on deck it severely injured 
several persons, almost killing the helmsman, beside 
breaking the wheel. The ship was again hove to; and 
through that long night, and part of the next day, each 
hour appearing more fearful than the last, wind and 
wave seemed to contend with undiminished violence as 


28 


AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF AN ACTRESS. 


to which should strike the fatal blow that would end our 
struggles and completely demolish our already unsafe 
vessel. 

“At length, after forty-eight hours’ continuance, the 
storm abated. Once more a bright sun appeared, and 
hope smiled upon us through its cheering rays. Some 
time was spent in such repairs as could be made, and it 
was decided, the wind being westerly, that we should 
put back for the nearest port in Europe. All our live 
stock and fresh provisions being washed away with the 
entire supply of cooking utensils, it was fortunate that, 
among the private stores in the cabin, we had a quantity 
of French conserves, pates de perigord , de foie gras , and 
so forth; but these luxuries became exceedingly distaste¬ 
ful when they constituted our chief food for several 
days. On the fifth day we encountered a craft that 
supplied us with some bread and a barrel of potatoes, 
as well as an iron kettle. Never shall I forget the de¬ 
lightful relish that those potatoes proved to have after 
we had remained so long without the means of cooking 
any thing. 

“ The wind being favorable as we entered the British 
Channel, we continued our course, and reached Havre 
on the 9th October. The Brandt was reported at 
Havre, and the anxious surprise of our elder brother, 
who was residing there, soon brought him on board. 
The meeting with an afflicted mother opened afresh her 
lacerated heart. No word was spoken ; our dismantled 
ship and the one missing form too plainly told the 
sad tale. 

“ The Brandt was necessarily abandoned, and on the 
15th October we sailed for New York in the packet ship 
‘ Queen Mab.’ We had a long passage of forty days. 


LOSS OF A SAILOR. 


29 


with much boisterous weather; but nothing worthy of 
particular note occurred, save the loss of one of our 
crew. 

“ It was ere the dawn of day; a western gale had partly 
subsided, and the wind came only in gusts: two men 
were ordered to let out a reef in the spanker — one of 
them, a sailor whose fine appearance and handsome, 
happy countenance had often attracted the attention of 
the passengers, was on the extreme end of the boom, 
when it was suddenly jerked by a fitful blast so vio¬ 
lently as to throw both men off, the one at the end fall¬ 
ing into the sea. Immediately the cry ran through the 
ship, ‘ All hands ahoy — a man overboard ! ’ and, ring¬ 
ing through the cabin, sent a thrill in every heart that 
made each slumberer leap to his feet. The captain was 
quickly on deck, and many half-clad passengers, rushing 
from their berths, followed him. 

“ The ship was hove to as rapidly as possible, and the 
mate, with two seamen, jumped into the stern boat. 
There was no hesitation ; the word was given, * Let go,’ 
and the frail bark struck the sea. It was a noble sight 
to see these three men, perilling their own lives in a 
rough sea to try to save a fellow-creature. They plied 
their oars in the wake of the ship, and soon were out of 
sight. 

“ Silently and anxiously we watched for them for up¬ 
wards of an hour. At last, when morn began to 4 wave 
her purple wings,’ we descried the boat returning. As 
soon as they were within sound, they, were hailed by 
the captain with an ‘All well ? ’ Breathlessly we listened 
for a reply; a mournful ‘ No ! ’ was echoed back ; and 
as the brave fellows ascended the deck, an emotion of 
sympathy was felt for their noble daring, and a silent 


30 


AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF AN ACTRESS. 


tear moistened the eye for the fate of their former com¬ 
panion.” 

New York was in future to be our permanent abode. 
For a time every thing seemed strange to the younger 
children. We could understand but very little English; 
and American children, with whom we could not con¬ 
verse, seemed dull companions in comparison with our 
merry little playmates of Les Jardins Publiques. My 
thoughts were always wandering back to the pleasant 
places we had left, and I longed to exchange the red¬ 
brick walls for green trees and beautiful gardens. “ Shall 
we never return ? ” “ Must we live here always ? ” were 
questions often asked with childish eagerness, but never 
satisfactorily answered. 

Then came school days, with their busy round of joys 
and cares—joys less perfect than those of after years, 
and cares that press as heavily on the child’s unstrength¬ 
ened heart as life cares on that of matured but courage¬ 
ous womanhood. So at least I thought, and still think. 
Soon after our arrival in New York, we were placed at 
Mrs. Okill’s boarding school — and there I appeared 
for the second time on a mimic stage. It was in a little 
French play, — I do not even recollect its name,— 
performed, after a public examination of the scholars, for 
the amusement of the parents and guardians. My sister 
Matilda and I were intrusted with important parts, and 
won many praises. 

For a long period I did not entirely recover from the 
consequences of the sea voyage and its terrible excite¬ 
ments, and my school days were frequently interrupted 
by fits of illness. I was, however, permitted to read as 
much as I chose, and availed myself amply of the priv¬ 
ilege. I read any thing and every thing that I could 


YOUTHFUL DOGGEREL. 


31 


find. Of poetry I was never tired, and at ten years 
old I had read the whole of Shakspeare’s plays many 
times over. My reading was not guided — I was’ 
allowed to take any book that I chose, French or 
English, from my father’s library. When I look back 
upon some of the works which I perused with avidity 
at that early age, I can hardly believe it possible that a 
child could have waded through them, or culled out 
meaning enough to render the subjects interesting. I 
amused myself by writing also, and fancied that I wrote 
poetry, because I made the ends of the lines rhyme. 
Every marriage, or birth, or death, or exciting circum¬ 
stance that occurred in the family invariably furnished 
me with a subject. All my deeper feelings spontane¬ 
ously expressed themselves in verse. I used to sit for 
hours stringing doggerel together, and longing to show it 
to somebody who would be sure to say that the verses 
were very beautiful. I seldom had courage to exhibit 
these infantile productions, but laid little plots to secure 
their being seen. Sometimes I would leave a copy of 
verses on the floor in some of my brothers’ rooms, or on 
the nursery mantelpiece, or write them on the walls in 
the garden, which at one period were covered over with 
rhymes. I seldom got praised for any of these effusions, 
and I doubt whether they deserved any praise; though 
I, at the time, imagined them very fine. One day I 
let fall a little “ poem ”— as I designated it — in the room 
of one of my brothers, and soon after perceived him 
coming out of his apartment with the paper in his hand. 
He went down stairs, and, unperceived, I stole softly 
after him. When he entered the drawing room, where 
my father was sitting, I dropped down on the last step, 
with my heart beating so painfully that I could scarcely 


32 


AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF AN ACTRESS. 


breathe. I could hear him say, “ Just read this, papa; 
it is some of Anna’s nonsense.” 

I sat still, too much agitated to move, but not able to 
overhear what passed, until the words came to me in 
my father’s voice, “ I wish you would call her.” 

I sprang up to betake myself to flight; but my brother 
had opened the door before I could disappear. I was 
summoned. I entered the room like a culprit who had 
been guilty of some heavier crime than that of murder¬ 
ing English and perpetrating bad poetry. 

“ Did you write these lines yourself ? ” inquired my 
father, in his usual kind tone. 

“ Yes,” I answered. 

“ Are you sure that nobody helped you ? Are you 
sure that you did not get them out of some book ? ” 

I replied, indignantly, that they were my own. I was 
beginning to be elated by the idea that probably I had 
produced something wonderful, after all. 

“ They are not very good grammar,” said my father; 
“but they are quite pretty, for all that. Who knows 
what my little chicken may turn out one of these days ? ” 
he added, caressing me. 

These were the first words of praise that had ever 
been bestowed upon what I wrote. I felt inclined to 
cry for joy; but my brother took the lines, and be¬ 
gan pointing out the flagrant mistakes in metre, in 
grammar, in sense ; and I snatched the paper out of 
his hand and ran away. My childish heart was full 
of conflicting emotions — delight at my father’s ap¬ 
proval — vexation with my brother — shame at my 
own ignorance in writing so incorrectly. For a long 
period after that I kept every thing I wrote carefully 
locked up, and made a bonfire when my store accumu¬ 
lated beyond bounds. 


SCHOOL DATS. 


33 


At school I was too wild, too “ ungovernably gay,” to 
gain the highest honors. I learned with great rapidity 
any thing I fancied; but the good marks I got for my 
studies were too often counterbalanced by bad marks 
received for talking, making the other girls laugh, or 
disobeying rules. I and one of my younger sisters were 
constantly convicted of being ringleaders in all mis¬ 
chief which had merriment for its end. I was general¬ 
ly at the head, or very near the head, of classes for 
reading, recitation of poetry, mythology, history, physi¬ 
ology, mental philosophy, &c., but as invariably at the 
foot of grammar, arithmetic, algebra. The multiplica¬ 
tion table I never succeeded in learning. Sums in the 
rule of three, and French verbs, were my childhood’s 
miseries. I considered them invented for my own par¬ 
ticular torment. I got into the more deep disgrace on 
these points because I was tolerably bright in other re¬ 
spects. 

During a portion of our school-day probation, two 
sisters and I were placed at boarding school in New Ro¬ 
chelle. There I was really unhappy. I had but one 
source of consolation and delight — the little garden 
which I was permitted to plant and call my own. We 
each were given a bit of ground about four feet square, 
and allowed to work there a short time every day. 
These are the only happy hours I can remember 
amongst the many lonely and miserable ones that made 
up the year. Nor were these miseries imaginary. We 
were harshly treated — punished for the slightest in¬ 
fringement of most severe rules — inadequately fed 
— and deprived of all pleasures but a formal walk 
every afternoon, a short “ intermission ” twice each day, (at 
which we were forbidden to make any noise,) and the 
3 


34 


AUTOBIOGRAPHY OP AN ACTRESS. 


much-prized and delightful garden digging. When I 
was twelve years old, we were summoned home. Our 
father’s house seemed paradise, indeed, from the contrast. 
We once more became day scholars in good schools, and 
merry as uncaged linnets. 

Our favorite amusement continued to be the enacting 
of plays and reciting poetical dialogues. I soon became 
stage manager and director of all these dramatic per¬ 
formances, and was called upon to write fresh scenes, 
add in new characters, or alter the denouements, accord¬ 
ing to the fancies of our whimsical little corps. 
Sometimes we invented the plots of these plays, — or 
selected them from incidents in history, — chose charac¬ 
ters, dressed for them, and improvised the dialogues and 
the scenes during performance. We did not care par¬ 
ticularly for audiences — they generally consisted of our 
schoolmates or any accidental visitors, and very ofteu 
we had no audience at all. These plays merely took 
the place of other childish games, and afforded an intel¬ 
lectual excitement as well as amusement. 

I was fourteen years old when I conceived the project 
of preparing some grand celebration in honor of our 
father’s birthday. We would enact a standard play — 
a real play. It should be studied and produced with 
great care. The friends of our elder sisters and our 
parents should be invited as well as our own. For once, 
we would act before grown-up people, and on a great oc¬ 
casion. The play selected — because it required no 
scenery, and only such characters as we could readily fill, 
with the assistance of some school friends — was Vol¬ 
taire’s Alzire, translated into English. All our male 
characters were represented by young girls, for our 
brothers had passed the days when they could have 


ALZIRE. 


35 


been persuaded to wear tbe sock and buskin amongst 
juveniles. Our parents would not have allowed us to 
supply their places with any but those of our own sex. 

A great difficulty arose in procuring costumes for the 
Spanish and Moorish heroes — a difficulty which came 
near ruining our project. Mr. Simpson, the excellent 
and gentlemanlike manager of the Park Theatre, with his 
delightful family, lived opposite. We had no acquaint¬ 
ance with them beyond bowing to the children when 
we met in the street. It was proposed, however, that 
three or four of the most confident of our number should 
pay a visit to Mrs. Simpson, and beg her to use her in¬ 
fluence with her husband to lend us certain costumes 
from the wardrobe of the theatre. Mrs. Simpson re¬ 
ceived us very kindly. I was made spokesman on the 
occasion, and, but for her sweet face and gentle manners, 
.should have found some difficulty in making known the 
wishes of our youthful committee. Evidently much 
amused at our enthusiasm, she promised that we should 
have the dresses. In return, we invited her children to 
be present at the performance. 

We had many, a great many, rehearsals, some before 
our parents and elder sisters, who, after witnessing one 
of these, consented to invite their friends. When the 
play concluded, the evening was to end with a ball. 
The performance was to take place in the back draw¬ 
ing room. To supply the place of scenery, it was hung 
round with crimson curtains, through which we were to 
make our entrances and exeunts. The audience were 
to sit in rows in the front drawing room. We had a 
drop curtain and a prompter, who stood ready with his 
book and bell (or rather her book and bell, for she was 
a young lady) to mark the division of the acts by the 


36 


AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF AN ACTRESS. 


falling of the curtain. Of course, there could be no 
change of scene. The audience were supposed courte¬ 
ously to imagine when we were talking by moonlight in 
a wood, or by torchlight in a prison, or by daylight in 
a lady’s boudoir. 

The eventful evening so anxiously expected by our 
little troupe came, and with it a host of visitors. They 
were presented with neatly-written programmes at the 
door, and seated in a manner to allow the old people and 
children a close proximity to the stage. A prologue 
had been written by a talented friend, (Miss Anna L. 
Putnam, sister of the publisher,) to be spoken by our 
youngest little sister Julia, then scarcely four years old. 
She was my pupil, and I had .cause to be proud of 
her. I think I was more anxious that she should acquit 
herself brilliantly than that I should perform my own part 
with eclat. Her talent for the stage, even at that age, was 
a marvel. She did not speak with parrot-like precision, 
as though the words had been taught to her ; but uttered 
them as though she comprehended them, knew their full 
value, and gave them a meaning of her own. 

The curtain rose, and she came tripping forward, un¬ 
shadowed by the touch of fear — a round, rosy, lovely 
child, with a look full of intellect, and a grace which no 
art could teach. On her fair, curling hair we had 
placed a wreath of rosebuds and leaves; and she wore 
a little white dress, looped up with pink ribbons. Her 
recitation of the prologue seemed to me perfection ; and 
those who were better judges, and still remember it, say 
that no poem could have been more effectively delivered. 
Her presence of mind must have been something re¬ 
markable, for, the curtain not falling at the right mo¬ 
ment, she prettily repeated over the last lines, kissing 


PREJUDICE AGAINST THEATRES. 


37 


her hand and courtesying three or four times as she 
backed up the stage with the knowledge of a veteran 
artist. This had not been taught to her. As soon as 
we could catch her in our arms, she was almost smoth¬ 
ered with kisses; but she was a calm, self-possessed 
little creature, free from all vanity, and did not appear 
in the least excited. She had played her part well, and 
only wanted to escape into the drawing room, to sit on 
her mother’s knee and watch the others perform. 

The play went off with great eclat , as the tears of the 
audience, bestowed as freely as their applause, amply 
testified. I enacted the part of Alzire, and succeeded 
in losing my own identity in that of the heroine. My 
father came behind the scenes when the play was over, 
and his words of commendation sank deep in my heart. 
I wondered if I really deserved them, and if other 
people would say the same. Our stage dresses were 
quickly laid aside for ball costume, and the evening 
ended with dancing and great hilarity. 

Strange to say, up to this period I had visited a 
theatre but once, and that only a few weeks before our 
birthday fete. For some years our parents and their 

children had all attended the church of Dr. E-n, now 

*Bishop E-n. I went to Sunday school with my 

sisters twice every Sunday — at first as pupil, and then 
as teacher. I had a species of enthusiastic admiration 

and reverence for Bishop E-n. I loved to see him 

enter the Sunday school; I loved to hear him in the 
pulpit; and was happier all day if he accidentally 
bestowed upon me a passing word. He disapproved 
of theatres ; he pronounced them the “ abodes of sin and 
wickedness.” It never occurred to me to inquire what 
he really knew of theatres; but I trusted implicitly 





38 


AUTOBIOGRAPHY OP AN ACTRESS. 


in his supposed information. I determined that I never 
would enter such a dreadful place. My sisters went 
now and then with our father; but, in spite of my decided 
passion for plays and for acting, the thought of the 
imaginary monsters of evil, which I was certainly to 
behold, kept me away. 

Fanny Kemble was then taking her farewell of the 
stage. Her name was on every body’s lips ; her praises 
echoed from all sides. I read critiques upon her acting 
in the papers, and heard her talked of as a most devoted 
daughter and truly excellent woman. I could not help 
longing to see her; but the old objections were strong 
within me, and I was afraid of being laughed at if I 
confessed that my interest in the woman made me will¬ 
ing to enter such a place, as I supposed a theatre to be, 
to see the actress. Her last engagement was drawing 
to a close. My sisters had witnessed several of her 
performances, and constantly mentioned them with 
delight. 

One morning my father overtook us as we were walk¬ 
ing to school. He accosted my elder sister with, “ I am 
going to take seats to see Fanny Kemble to night in the 
Hunchback. Would you like to go?” 

She, of course, answered in the affirmative. I lookecf 
at my father, longing for him to ask me; but I had too 
often cried down the theatre with childish violence, and 

quoted Dr. E-n as authority. I dared not request 

that my father would take me. 

Just as he was leaving us, he said, carelessly, “ And 
so you, Anna, are never going ? ” 

I could not resist the temptation, and answered, in a 
faltering voice, “I should like to see Fanny Kemble 
just oncer 



FIRST VISIT TO A THEATRE. 


39 


“ O, you have changed your mind ? Very well; I 
will take a seat for you to-night,” was his reply. 

That day few were the studies to which I attended. 
I could think of nothing but the theatre, and do nothing 
but long for evening to come. It did come at last, 
after a day that seemed like a week, and to the theatre 
we went. When we entered the boxes, my first sensa¬ 
tion was of bewilderment at the crowd, the lights, the 
music, the sea of expectant faces beneath us in the pit, 
and mounting in waves around us and above us. Yet I 
did not quite forget that there must be some “ sin and 
wickedness ” which I could not comprehend, and I 
believe I even asked my father to have the goodness to 
point out the “ harm.” He might have told me, what I 
learned in after years, that the “ harm ” consisted in the 
perversion of good to evil; in abuses which had nothing 
to do with the drama itself; in the poison which evil 
minds, like spiders, draw from the rose whence the bee 
sucks but honey. 

The curtain ascended, and I was all eyes and ears. 
Fanny Kemble appeared in the second scene, and I 
thought I had never beheld any creature so perfectly 
bewitching. The tones of her voice were richest music, 
and her dark, flashing eyes seemed to penetrate my 
very soul. Her “ Clifford, why don’t you speak to 
me ? ” made me start from my seat; and her “ Do it! ” 
to Master Walter, electrified me, as indeed it did the 
whole audience. The play was a reality from begin¬ 
ning to end, and I laughed and wept immoderately. 

After the drama, the two Misses Wheatley danced a 
pas de deux ; and though I have since beheld the finest 
European ballet dancers, none ever made the delightful 
impression that those chastely-graceful girls left upon 


40 


AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF AN ACTRESS. 


my mind. I little thought that in after years I should 
have the pleasure of becoming acquainted with them; 
no longer children, but most refined and accomplished 
ladies, exemplary wives, — one of them a mother, — and 
both gracing the high sphere in which they move 
Their stage garments have long been laid aside; but the 
stage needs no better defence than the blameless lives 
of these two admirable and lovely women and their 
mother. 

All my prejudices against the theatre melted “ into 
thin air ” with this first night; but I went very seldom, 
not more than three or four times, I think, while 1 
remained at school. 


CHAPTER II. 


My eldest Sister. — First Acquaintance with Mr. Mowatt. — Singular 
Impressions. — Sudden Project of educating a Child for a Wife. — 
Madam Chegaray's School. — Alzire. — Attempt at an Offer frus¬ 
trated .— The first Love Letter.—A Refusal and a Consent .— 
My Father's Stipulations. — A Wedding Party without a Bride. — 
Preparations for the Performance of the Drama of the Mourning 
Bride. — Effect of a Lover's Melancholy. — A Promise. — The 
Confidant.—Novel Mode of procuring and preparing a bridal 
Wirdrobe. — Adventures. — Refusal of three Clergymen to perform 
the Ceremony. — A runaway Wedding. — Rencontre with a Father. 
— A Child keeps a Secret. — A Farewell. — Breaking the News .— 
“ The Bt ide's Flower." — The Pardon. — Bridal Celebration. 


I must go back to my thirteenth year, to relate one of 
the most important incidents of my life, the one which 
was to govern my whole future existence. My eldest 
sister Charlotte, with her two little children, passed a 
summer at Rockaway, for the enjoyment of sea bathing. 
Among the guests at Rock Hall was James Mowatt, of 
New York, a young barrister of education and fortune. 
He was much charmed with my sister, imagining her to 
be a youthful widow. This mistake she never discov¬ 
ered until his admiration was expressed in open terms. 
When informed that he was addressing a married 
woman, his chagrin was so great that she laughingly 
consoled him by saying, “ 0, I have plenty of youijg 
sisters at home, and one of them very much resembles 
me. Call upon me in New York, and I will make you 
acquainted with her.” 


41 


42 


AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF AN ACTRESS. 


In a few weeks she returned to the city. Mr. Mowatt 
made no delay in paying his respects. The school, 
which four of us children attended, was directly oppo¬ 
site our residence. While we were in the midst of our 
studies one day, a messenger came to say that the eldest 
of the schoolgirl sisters must come home. She was the 
one that strikingly resembled our sister Charlotte. I 
asked the servant if any thing had happened. She re¬ 
plied, “ No ; that there was only a gentleman in the draw¬ 
ing room, who entreated that my sister might be sent 
for.” I had heard Mr. Mowatt much talked of in the 
family, and felt a childish curiosity to see him. With¬ 
out permission, I accompanied my sister home, and 
watched her while her beautiful hair was recurled, and 
her schooldress laid aside for a more becoming attire. 
She was ushered into the drawing room; and I, of course, 
dared not enter. 

After waiting about half an hour, I remembered that 
I had received no permission to leave school, and, cer¬ 
tain visions of black marks rising up before me, I thought 
it judicious to return. But to go back without having 
seen this much-talked-of beau — I could not do that. 
I would enter the drawing room on some pretext. After 
hesitating a while, I opened the door, ran Across the 
room, threw down my satchel of school books upon 
the centre table, — as though that must be their proper 
place, — gave one look towards the sofa, and ran out 
again. 

“ Who is that ? ” I heard the gentleman exclaim. 

“ Only one of the children from the nursery,” an¬ 
swered my eldest sister. 

“ Do call her back,” he urged. 

My sister came to the door and called out, as I was 


LOVE AT FIRST SIGHT. 


43 


flying up stairs, tolerably frightened at what I had done, 
“ Anna, Anna, come back and speak to Mr. Mowatt! ” 
“ I don’t care for Mr. Mowatt! ” was the saucy re¬ 
ply that reached his ears ; and away I went. 

A servant was sent to summon me, but I refused to 
comply. I waited until I heard the gentleman take his 
leave, then hurried down stairs to return to school. 
Mr. Mowatt was standing at the foot of the street door 
steps, and placed himself in front of me with extended 
arms. There was no retreat, and he kept me prisoner 
for some time. I was, indeed, — 

“ Wayward, bold, and wild, 

A self-willed imp, a grandam’s child; 

And half a plague, and half a jest, 

Was still endured, beloved, caressed,” — 


and I answered his many questions with saucy, merry 
frankness, every now and then imploring to be freed. 
Finding he would not consent, I watched my opportu¬ 
nity, suddenly slipped beneath his arm, and ran across 
the street to school. I well remember the expression 
of his face as I looked back, laughing heartily at the 
astonishment of my discomfited jailer. 

I have very many times heard Mr. Mowatt describe 
this first interview to his friends, particularly to Mary 
Howitt, of London, and I only regret that I cannot con¬ 
vey his impressions in the same language. Soon after 
he left the house, he encountered an intimate acquaint¬ 
ance. The subject turned upon courtship and matri¬ 
mony. His friend asked him how long he intended to 
remain a bachelor. 

“ Not long,” he replied, “ if a little girl whom I saw 
to-day would only grow up.” He then related what 


44 


AUTOBIOGRAPHY OP AN ACTRESS. 


had taken place, and added, emphatically, “ I feel as 
though I should never marry unless I marry that 
child.” 

I have often heard him repeat his having used these 
words, and quote in connection with them Moore’s beau¬ 
tiful lines — 

“ O, there are looks and tones that dart 
An instant sunshine through the heart, 

As though the soul that moment caught 
Some treasure it through life had sought.” 

From that moment he conceived the project of edu¬ 
cating me to suit his own views — of gaining my affec¬ 
tions, and, the instant I was old enough to be considered 
marriageable, of taking me to his own home — his child- 
wife. His visits to the family became very frequent. 
He always inquired for me; but I was generally at 
school, or studying my lessons, or had gone to bed; and 
he was constantly frustrated in his desire to see me. 
But his perseverance comprehended no discouragement. 
Our school was now changed — we were placed at 
Madame Chegaray’s, to be instructed in the higher 
branches of education. On our way to school (which 
was about half a mile distant from our home) we regu¬ 
larly encountered Mr. Mowatt. He would walk beside 
me, carry my books and slate, and question me about 
my studies. Sometimes he made them clearer to me ; 
and very soon, under the stimulus of his suggestions, 
my ambition to become an accomplished scholar was 
aroused. Now and then I would propose to my sisters, 
for mischief, to take a different road, that he might miss 
us; but after a couple of days he discovered the strata¬ 
gem, and stationed one of his clerks to watch which 


AN OFFER FRUSTRATED. 


45 


street we took. He was thus instantly apprised if we 
were going different ways. 

I thought it very grand to have so devoted a lover, 
and played the tyrant at thirteen and fourteen to my 
heart’s content. Yet I owed almost entirely to Mr. 
Mowatt the rapid progress which I made in my studies 
at these ages. He directed my reading, furnished 
me with books, examined all my compositions, and 
(what I thought most delightful of all) supplied me 
with an endless quantity of flowers, as a species of re¬ 
ward for my industry. 

He was present at my performance of Alzire, and 
was naturally the most enthusiastic where all were en¬ 
thusiastic. The next morning he determined to offer 
himself, although I was not yet fifteen. It was Satur¬ 
day, and there was no school. He called very early, 
and asked particularly for me. While my sisters were 
making their toilets, I hastened to the parlor in my 
morning dress. I was eager to listen to praises of the 
past night’s efforts. But I was not more disappointed 
than astonished when the gentleman awaiting me com¬ 
menced a serious conversation, without making the 
slightest allusion to the play. I only comprehended 
enough to be alarmed. I did not reply, but, jumping up, 
called to my sister Charlotte to come down stairs quickly. 
She did so, inquiring what was the matter. Of course, 
this was an unanswerable question, and the situation of 
two of the parties concerned must have been particularly 
ludicrous. 

When Mr. Mowatt left, I told her what had passed. 
She laughed, and said he was making sport of me, 
because I was such a forward child. But the sport 
proved earnest, and what I refused to listen to that day 


46 


AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF AN ACTRESS. 


was conveyed to me by letter the next. A school¬ 
girl of fourteen pondering over a love letter — an offer 
of marriage from a man many years her senior. It 
was in itself an amusing situation; yet I found it a 
painful one. I carried the important document to 
my sister Louisa, and, making her promise secrecy, 
placed the letter in her hands. She read it without 
comment. 

“Well, and what are you going to do?” she in¬ 
quired, at its conclusion. 

“ Get you to help me to write an answer, and tell him 
I am too young to marry any body, and say something 
about friendship , and all that sort of thing — because I 
do like him very much.” 

She told me I must write the letter myself, and she 
would correct it — she could do nothing more. I went to 
the nursery, for, ludicrous as it sounds, I still belonged 
to the nursery — slept there, and there kept my books 
and writing materials; and to the nursery I took my 
love letter. I began an answer, and tore it up — 
and began another, and another; and at last succeeded 
in writing a page of nonsense, which I thought very 
good sense. I took it to my sister to read. She pro¬ 
nounced that it would do; and the letter was sent by 
post. 

Its effect, however, was very different from the one 
anticipated. Mr. Mowatt merely laughed at what he 
considered girlish shyness. He increased, rather than 
diminished, the number of his visits, and assumed the 
bearing of an accepted, instead of a rejected, lovei 
This went on for some time, and he took frequent op¬ 
portunities of assuring me that he could never be made 
to comprehend the meaning of the word “ No.” It was 


BRIDAL PARTY WITHOUT A BRIDE. 


47 


a safe way to woo a child, and when I was within a few 
weeks of fifteen, the “ No ” was forgotten, and a “ Yes ” 
had taken its place. 

My father’s consent was asked. He could find no 
objection to Mr. Mo watt, and made my extreme youth 
the only barrier. He replied, that, if we both remained, 
of the same mind until I was seventeen, he would give 
his sanction to our union. Meantime, Mr. Mowatt 
might continue his visits, and see me as often as any 
other gentleman. 

This answer did not satisfy a lover whose principal 
object was to direct the whole education of the girl he 
married. But my father resisted all entreaties to give 
any other; especially as I was the most sickly of his 
children, and greatly needed a mother’s care. 

At fifteen I left school, and took drawing and music 
lessons at home, only studying whatever Mr. Mowatt 
requested. The next winter I was, with an elder sister, 
to be introduced into society. This was his particular 
dread, and he made up his mind that I should become 
his wife before that winter arrived. For six months 
his arguments to peisuademe to leave my father’s house 
were used in vain. Once I very nearly consented, and 
upon that half consent he built such confident hopes that 
the next morning all arrangements were made, at the 
house of his sister-in-law, for the performance of the 
nuptial ceremony. The necessary witnesses were as¬ 
sembled, and a carriage stood at the door to be de¬ 
spatched for the clergyman the moment I arrived. A 
young friend, who was to act as bridesmaid, came for 
me ; but, in spite of her persuasions and remonstrances, 
she had to return alone, and dismiss the expectant bridal 
party. 


48 


AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF AN ACTRESS. 


September came, and the ball season was shortly to 
commence. A party was to be given again this year in 
honor of my father’s birthday, October 17, and we were 
to enact another play. The Mourning Bride was se¬ 
lected ; but there being no character in which the talents 
of our gifted little sister Julia could be displayed, I was 
called upon to write a part. The only way I could 
devise was to furnish Queen Zara with a child, which 
child certainly proved a most wise, energetic, and talk¬ 
ative personage. The author would, I fancy, have been 
somewhat astonished and amused at the novel intro¬ 
duction. 

For weeks scarcely any thing was talked of but cos¬ 
tumes, and rehearsals, and scenic effects, and I found 
more pleasure than ever in conducting the stage man¬ 
agement. I was to enact one of the two heroines. But 
our merry preparations were doomed to have a sudden 
interruption. 

I was pained to find that Mr. Mowatt no longer en¬ 
joyed his daily visits. He had become gloomy and dis¬ 
contented. He did not like the prospect of my entering 
into the gay world. He was convinced that, with my 
lively and excitable temperament, I would soon abandon 
my studies, and be wholly engrossed by social gayeties. 
I would be either lost to him, or so completely spoiled by 
too early an intercourse with society that his hopes con¬ 
cerning me could never be realized. Then he was no 
favorite with my family in general. They did not ap¬ 
prove of my premature engagement. He was con¬ 
stantly subjected to slights and annoyances, to which a 
man of spirit could ill submit. He made me feel that 
he was unhappy, and daily becoming more so. More 
earnestly than ever he entreated me to become his wife 


EFFECT OF A LOVER’S MELANCHOLY. 


49 


without further delay. I proposed that we should again 
attempt to obtain my father’s sanction; but that Mr. 
Mo watt pronounced useless. For a long time I resisted 
his persuasions; but at last, when he had ceased to en¬ 
treat me, I was so much grieved by the painfulness of 
his position, and the sight of his deepening melancholy, 
that of my own free will I gave him a promise that we 
should be united within a week. 

Young as I was, and totally incapable of appreciating 
the importance of the step I was taking, I did not come 
to this determination without much suffering. But once 
having resolved , once having promised, nothing earthly 
could have shaken my resolution. 

I did not dread my mother’s anger, for I had never 
seen her lovely face distorted by passion. I had never 
heard her voice raised to an angry tone. I was sure of 
her tenderness, sure of her pardon. I had more fear 
of my father. But I was a favorite child; he had ever 
been most indulgent; he was seldom vexed with me; 
and I trusted to his love, and believed that he would 
easily be reconciled to me in spite of my disobedience. 
I was not marrying a man to whom he had refused his 
consent. I was only anticipating the two years during 
which he thought it necessary for me to wait. I readily 
argued myself into the belief that I should be forgiven. 

The play for which we were nearly prepared, and 
the ball — those had to be given up. But I could not 
relinquish all thoughts of them without great regret at 
the disappointment which I knew my sisters would expe¬ 
rience. 

What was I to do ? and who was to aid me ? I 
could not leave my father’s house alone. I could not be 
married without a bridal wardrobe . These were huge. 
4 


50 


AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF AN ACTRESS. 


barriers to be surmounted; but I went resolutely to 
work, determined to overcome them. I first confided 
my secret to a young nursery maid in the family, to 
whom I was much attached. I entreated her to accom¬ 
pany me when I left my home, and she consented. 
Then I went to my sister Matilda, with whom I was 
most intimate. After making her solemnly promise that 
she would not betray me, I told her that I intended to be 
married privately within a week. She was very much 
startled and overcome. She used arguments, entrea¬ 
ties, prayers, to dissuade me. She tried to convince me 
that I would not be forgiven; that I might repent 
through my whole future life the step that I was so 
rashly taking. My only answer was, “ I have prom¬ 
ised, and cannot break my word. You have promised, 
and cannot betray me.” 

Finding that I was not to be moved, she concluded 
that the wisest plan was to lend me every assistance in 
her power. Reluctantly and sadly, against her better 
judgment, she promised me her services. 

We were sorely puzzled how to procure a wardrobe, 
and a wardrobe seemed to us indispensable. The first 
difficulty was how to obtain the money to purchase one, 
and the next how to have the materials made up when 
they were bought. 

I had a few valuable diamonds and emeralds. I did 
not care for jewelry. Why should we not try to sell 
them ? And my gold watch ! We had heard of three 
golden balls hanging over shops where people went to 
pledge various articles for money. We would hunt out 
one of these places, and pawn the watch. We preferred 
that course to selling it, because it was an ornament I 
prized, and it could be reclaimed. 


ADVENTURES. 


51 


Early in the morning we started on our errand to 
raise funds. The diamonds and emeralds were easily 
disposed of at about one tenth part of their value. The 
jeweller who bought them scanned us very narrowly 
and asked a few questions. Indignant at his implied 
doubts, I looked him steadily in the face, and said, “ They 
are my own, sir, and I can do with them what I like.” 

Whether he believed me or not, he was silenced. 
He took the jewels, and counted out the money. I have 
forgotten the exact sum, but we thought it a fortune. 
After this we strolled down the Bowery in search of a 
pawnbroker’s. A sign of three golden balls soon told 
us that we bad found one. Scarcely had we entered 
the gloomy-looking shop, the shutters of which were 
half closed, when we both became dreadfully frightened. 
We should have hastily retreated, but the Jewish-look- 
ing man who kept the place rose up from behind a dark 
counter and accosted us. I held out the watch, too 
much alarmed to utter a word. 

“ Do you want money on this ? ” he asked, gruffly. 

“ Yes.” 

“ How much ? ” 

“ As much as possible.” 

The man laughed, and asked if thirty dollars would 
do. Any thing would have done that we might get 
away; and we both replied, “ Yes, yes.” 

He examined the watch very closely, and said, 
“ Come in here, young ladies,” pointing to an inner 
apartment. 

We hesitated. “ Don’t go! don’t go! ” whispered my 
sister, and we neither moved. 

“ Come in, that I may give you a receipt and you 
may sign your names in my book,” continued the man. 


52 


AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF AN ACTRESS. 


He had the watch, and we felt that we must comply. 
Very tremulously, and holding each other’s hands, we 
entered the room. My sister being the elder, he gave 
her a pen, and told her to write down her name and ad¬ 
dress. She stood a moment perfectly bewildered at the 
necessity of making known our names, and then handed 
the pen to me. I tried to assume a great deal of dig¬ 
nity, and seating myself at the table, wrote, “ Mrs. 
James,” which in a few days would be a portion of my 
name. I forget whether or not I invented a “ local 
habitation ” for the anticipated name. 

The man read the name, looked at the little girl who 
wrote it, and seemed very much inclined to burst into a 
fit of laughter. He, however, restrained himself, gave 
us the money and a receipt for the watch, and we hur¬ 
ried out of his shop with far more rapid steps than we 
had entered. 

All necessaries for a wardrobe were next to be pur¬ 
chased. It was raining in torrents ; we were very much 
fatigued, and, feeling quite rich, hired the first carriage 
that could be found. For several hours we drove about 
shopping as long as our money lasted, and filling the 
carriage with our purchases. Amongst other things, I 
insisted upon buying a large wax doll to comfort little 
Julia in my absence, and a huge basket full of sugar 
plums for the other children, which I hoped would have 
a similar consolatory etfect. Father juvenile “ bridal 
purchases.” 

We could not drive home in the carriage without be¬ 
ing questioned. We left our parcels at a confectioner’s 
very near our house, dismissed the carriage, gave or¬ 
ders that the bundles should be sent to our number, 


THE LAY FIGURE. 


53 


addressed to the nursery maid, who was to accompany 
me on my bridal expedition, and walked home. 

The next question was, How could the newly-pur¬ 
chased wardrobe be made up ? There was no resource 
but to make it ourselves, with the assistance of the nur¬ 
sery maid. But at what time could this be accom¬ 
plished without our being seen ? It must be at night — 
we must work instead of sleeping. My sister slept 
alone in a small room beneath the nursery, and there we 
proposed to meet. We arranged to retire early, and as 
soon as the house was quiet the nursery maid and I 
would steal cautiously to my sister’s room, and we would 
sit up until daylight and sew. Another difficulty sprang 
up. My mother was in the habit of visiting the nur¬ 
sery once or twice every night and seeing that tjie chil¬ 
dren were well covered and rested quietly. If my little 
bed in the corner should be found empty, search would, 
of course, be made for me. But we were not baffled 
yet. We made a figure of rags, dressed it in my 
nightclothes, put a cap on the head, and turned the face 
to the wall, taking care that the shoulders were nicely 
covered. My mother would think I was sleeping, 
and not disturb me. The plot succeeded. Night 
after night, for five or six nights, we three sat up, cut¬ 
ting out, fitting, sewing, making our needles fly with a 
scarcely credible rapidity. We were too much excited 
to grow sleepy, and accomplished an amount of work 
which now seems wonderful. At daybreak we went 
on tiptoe to our beds, after carefully concealing the lay 
figure, that my weary limbs might take its place. 

At length the 6th of October came — the day on 
which I had promised to be married. My slender ward- 


54 


AUTOBIOGRAPHY OP AN ACTRESS. 


robe was completed — all our arrangements made. The 
day dawned magnificently — every thing looked propi¬ 
tious. it might well be said of that day, as of the new 
life which it commenced, — 

“ Her dawn 

Was bright with sunbeams, whence was drawn' 

A sure prognostic that the day 
Would not unclouded pass away.” 

There had been some difficulty in procuring a clergy¬ 
man to perform the ceremony. Mr. Mowatt first ap¬ 
plied to Bishop Onderdonk. But he knew my father 
well — he had children of his own — it was not a good 
example to set them — he preferred that some other 
clergyman should be selected. I desired that Dr. 

E-n, whose church I attended, and in whose Sunday 

school I had been a scholar for some years, and was 
then a teacher, should be asked. He also refused. A 

third refusal came from Dr. J-n. Mr. Mowatt, 

nothing daunted, then applied to the Rev. Mr. Y-n, 

the French pastor. This gentleman’s own had been a 
runaway marriage ; therefore he could not object. He 
consented. The bridal party were requested to assem¬ 
ble at his house at ten o’clock. 

My sister dressed me in a plain white cambric dress. 
My little straw bonnet chanced to be trimmed with 
white ribbons, and the veil and white gloves which we 
had purchased she carried rolled in her handkerchief. 
They were not to be put on till we were out of sight 
of the house. I kissed my father before he went out, 
but felt myself becoming so agitated, that it was well he 
was in haste and did not notice me. Just as I was 
opening the street door, my mother came into the entry, 
and I kissed her also. She remarked my white dress, 





A RUNAWAY WEDDING. 


55 


and asked if I were not too lightly clad for such cold 
weather. I answered that I felt quite warm, and she 
allowed me to depart. 

My poor sister, I think, suffered even more than 1 
did; the blame was all to fall on her. She had done 
her utmost to dissuade me, and now had to assist in de 
priving herself of a beloved companion ; for, being next 
to each other in age, we w r ere very closely united in 
affection. I could not thank her at the time, but her 
unselfishness touched me deeply. 

We left the house, and, turning the first corner, she 
threw the bridal veil over my bonnet, gave me the 
white gloves, and begged me to try and look composed 
before I met Mr. Mowatt and his friends. 

Wonderfully composed I was. Of the future I did 
not even think; my only grief was at leaving my par¬ 
ents, my sisters, my home — leaving the love “ which 
had still been true,” for the “ love which was untried 
and new.” What could a girl of fifteen know of the 
sacred duties of a wife ? With what eyes could she 
contemplate the new and important life into which she 
was entering ? She had known nothing but her child¬ 
hood — had scarcely commenced her girlhood. What 
could she comprehend of the trials, the cares, the hopes, 
the responsibilities of womanhood ? I thought of none 
of these things. I had always been lighthearted to a 
degree that savored of frivolity. I usually made a jest 
of every thing — yet I did not look upon this matter as 
a frolic. I only remembered that I was keeping a 
promise. I had perfect faith in the tenderness of him 
to whom I confided myself. I did not in the least real¬ 
ize the novelty of my own situation. 

At St. John’s Park we met Mr. Mowatt and his two 


56 


AUTOBIOGRAPHY ON AN ACTRESS. 


groomsmen. I took his arm, and we walked to the 
house of the Rev. Mr. Y-n, my sister and the gen¬ 

tlemen following. 

We were ushered into the drawing room. Mr. 

Y-n entered in his robes. He, of course, did not 

know which of the sisters was the bride. He took his 
seat, opened a large register, and asked the names and 
ages of the parties about to be married. When I re¬ 
plied, giving my name, he looked at me steadily, and 
with some surprise. 

“ Your age ? ” he inquired. 

“ Fifteen.” 

He put down his pen, and repeated the question. 
For a few seconds he seemed doubtful whether he 
ought to proceed. I was thought to look younger even 
than my years; and I was dressed in a childlike manner, 
which probably made me appear younger still. 

The law sanctions the marriage of a girl of fifteen, 
and he could not make any reasonable objection. The 

names were registered. Mr. Y-n rose with the 

prayer book in his hand. We rose also, and the cere¬ 
mony was performed in French. At its close he 
delivered a beautiful address, intended for the bride¬ 
groom’s edification, rather than for that of the childlike 
bride; wished us both much happiness, and we took our 
leave. 

Our groomsmen had just left us. We had hardly 
walked a square when we encountered my father! 
My sister and I were greatly confused. My father 
joined us, and entered into conversation with Mr. 
Mowatt. All at once he exclaimed, looking at me, 
w Why, how like a bride you look ! One of these days, 
Mowatt, she will grow up to be quite a fine girl! ” 





A CHILD KEEPS A SECRET. 


57 


I could not repress a terrified exclamation at the 
word “bride,” and trembled from head to foot. For¬ 
tunately my father was just leaving us, and did not no¬ 
tice my agitation. 

We, returned home, and I passed the rest of the day 
in gathering together my little possessions and in writ¬ 
ing to my parents. I was to leave New York the next 
morning, and pass a few weeks in the country. The 
parting with my youngest sister, my sweet pupil, I felt 
more deeply than with all the rest. She was but five 
years old, yet, even at that age, her word could be 
trusted, and after making her promise not to mention 
what I was about to confide, I told her that I should 
soon leave her — that I was married — that we should 
live together no more. Nothing had shaken my self- 
possession as did her passionate burst of grief. She 
clasped her little arms about my neck, sobbing out, 
“ Don’t go! don’t go, sister! ” and cried until she fell 
asleep in my arms. When she awoke, I consoled her 
by the promise of my speedy return — and probably a 
description of the large wax doll which she was to pos¬ 
sess after my departure was not without its composing 
effect. But though she clung to my side for the rest 
of that day, and now and then looked up into my face 
as though her heart were breaking, she kept my secret 
faithfully. 

Mr. Mowatt passed the evening with us as usual, but 
little Julia’s grief greatly depressed me. When he 
left, and I retired to the nursery, I could not help sigh¬ 
ing to think that I should no longer be looked upon as 
one of the children. I began to have strange forebod¬ 
ings of the future, and again and again I repeated to 
myself, “ O, if this were only a dream, and I could 
wake up! ” 


58 


AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF AN ACTRESS. 


The next morning, immediately after breakfast, I 
was to join Mr. Mo watt, and, accompanied by the nur¬ 
sery maid, we were to take the steamboat for Nyack. 
His sister-in-law was residing there, and to her he pur¬ 
posed taking me. 

When breakfast was over, I made some laughing ex¬ 
cuse to kiss every one present, controlling, with a 
strong effort, the agitation which I could not but feel. 
As I stooped to kiss my father for the second time — I 
had already been at his bedside, and kissed him before 
he rose — my courage nearly gave way. In another 
instant I should have told him all. 

He looked at me anxiously, and said, “ What ails 
you, child ? ” I did not reply — I could not have 
answered, “ Nothing.” I hastened from the room, put 
on my bonnet and shawl, and, with my sister, hurriedly 
left the house. Little Julia had followed us to the street 
door. As I turned to look, she was standing with my 
mother on the steps, and kissed her hand when she saw 
me look back. 

“ Let us run ! let us run ! ” I said to my sister, for 
all my courage was melting away, and I could trust my¬ 
self no longer. And we did run, rapidly and without 
speaking, until we reached the spot where Mr. Mowatt 
was waiting for us. There I had to bid adieu to my 
faithful sister. She must go home and bear all the 
blame —see all the sorrow occasioned by my act, and 
know in her own heart that no fault was hers. She 
had only aided, through sisterly love, a step which she 
could not prevent. Luckily our parting was hurried. I 
had only time to thank her, and beg her to deliver my 
letter to our father, and to write to me immediately. 

With a heavy heart she returned home, and broke 


“the bride’s flower. 


59 


the news to an elder sister. They went together to my 
mother, and, after some gentle preparation, told her that 
I was married and gone. She was at first half stunned 
by the information, but, quickly recovering, made ear¬ 
nest inquiries concerning me — remembered my delicate 
health, and expressed many fears that I was not pro¬ 
vided with sufficiently warm clothing to protect me against 
the cold, which was becoming severe. Anger had no 
place in her heart nor in her words. She was full of 
tender solicitude, but neither chided my sister for the 
course she had taken, nor pronounced severely upon my 
own. 

My mother soon after visited the nursery, and found 
upon my dressing table a sprig of geranium that I had 
worn in my hair, with a white rose, the day previous. 
She planted the geranium; it grew; and she tended it 
carefully for the short remainder of her life. She 
called it “ the bride’s flower.” 

It was different with my father; he was indignant 
with the whole party, with me, with my sister, and, 
most of all, with Mr. Mowatt. My letter failed to 
pacify him. He at first declared that he would never 
forgive me, and it was three days before a letter was 
received, bringing his pardon. Those days seemed 
like a “ never,” indeed, to me. I began to believe that 
I had offended beyond forgiveness. I was almost heart 
broken at the idea of losing my father’s love, upon 
which I had drawn too largely. My thoughts, “ through 
all the faultful past, went sorrowing,” and I could not 
bear to dwell upon a future of which he did not form 
the principal feature. But the pardon came, and an 
invitation to return home. I begged that our visit in 
the country might be shortened, and we returned in a 


60 


AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF AN ACTRESS. 


week. My father, mother, all, welcomed us with open 
arms, and without one chiding word. It was the true 
way to make me conscious of my own shortcomings. I 
might have nerved myself to meet rebukes, but could 
not bear unmoved the tenderness I had not deserved. 
Mr. Mowatt they received less cordially, but still with 
kindness. 

Great disappointment was expressed that the play 
of the Mourning Bride could not be enacted on my 
father’s birthday. He told us that we should have a 
bridal ball instead, and, as I was still to be the heroine, 
I might enact the “laughing bride.” The ball took 
place, but I fear that, in my bridal robes, I appeared to 
be assuming a part quite as much as I should have 
done had we carried out our original intentions, and I 
had worn the costume of Almeira, the Mourning Bride. 


CHAPTER III. 


Studies. — Flatbush. —Purchase of Estate that hadbelonged to Gen¬ 
eral Giles. — Haunted House. — My Sister May. — Our juvenile 
Sports and Mode of Life. — Number of Books read and commented 
upon every Year. — Shooting Excursions. — A first Sorrow.—Death 
of our Mother .— Melrose. — Sunday School .— Fortune Teller of the 
Fair. — Pelayo. — Reviewers Reviewed.—Celebration of Seven¬ 
teenth Birthday. —Burlesque Concerts. — Tableaux. — The Gypsy 
Wanderer. — Bridal Address. — III health.—Departure for Eu¬ 
rope. 

The bearing of a new name, and the wearing of a 
ring, made very little alteration in my mode of life, or 
in the manner in which I occupied my time. I resumed 
my studies almost immediately. Mr. Mowatt himself 
instructed me in French and in the higher branches of 
English. I took music and singing lessons three times 
a week, and only abandoned drawing because a stoop¬ 
ing position was found injurious to my health. In this 
latter accomplishment several of my father’s children 
had shown a marked proficiency, which none had ex¬ 
hibited in music, and I laid aside my pencils with re¬ 
gret. 

I was excessively fond of the country, and early in 
the spring Mr. Mowatt took me to reside in Flatbush, 
Long Island. The house in which we boarded was a 
large, old-fashioned mansion, built before the revolution, 
and had belonged to General Giles. There were dark 
and spacious vaults beneath the kitchens, where it was 
said that English prisoners had been confined; and 

(Cl) 


62 


AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF AN ACTRESS. 


there was a secret chamber, above the great ball room, 
to which no access could be found save by a small win¬ 
dow. The neighbors affirmed that a young girl had 
been purposely starved to death in that chamber, and 
that her ghost wandered at night about the house. In¬ 
deed, this report had gained such credence, that nothing 
could have induced many of the older inhabitants of 
the village to pass a night beneath the haunted roof. 

The house stood back from the main road, embow¬ 
ered by magnificent old trees. The property consisted 
of twenty acres of land, in a high state of cultivation. 

I became so much attached to this place that Mr. 
Mowatt purchased it for my gratification ; stipulating, 
however, that I should content myself in passing the 
greater portion of the year in the country. I gladly 
consented. The house was repaired and refurnished; 
the gardens and orchards enlarged, and planted with an 
innumerable variety of fruit trees and flowers ; a green¬ 
house built; a long arbor erected, where I could walk 
at midday, quite shaded from the sun ; and a summer 
house reared in its centre, in which I could sit and 
write, or study. I had numberless pets — birds, dogs, 
pigeons, rabbits, a goat and kid, and a beautiful Arabian 
mare for my own especial use. We named her Queen 
Mab. At sixteen years old I found myself the mis¬ 
tress of this mansion, without a wish ungratified. 

After a time, my father kindly allowed a dear and 
gentle sister, some four years younger, to reside with 
me, that I might not be lonely. My time was occupied 
in studying, taking care of my pets, riding about the 
country, and instructing my sister May in whatever I 
learned myself—French, Spanish, music, &c. 

Brilliantly happy were the days we passed together 


MY SISTER MAY. 


63 


We neither ceased to be children, nor gave up our 
childish sports. Our morning amusements were trun¬ 
dling a couple of huge hoops through the favorite arbor, 
dancing with the skipping rope, or floating round the 
“ flying course,” which had been erected to promote our 
healthful exercise. Sometimes we ordered ladders to 
be placed by cherry trees loaded down with fruit, and 
spent our mornings in the branches, gathering cherries, 
and reading when we were tired. An easy saddle 
horse was placed at my sister’s disposal, and we took 
long rides together, accompanied by the gardener or 
coachman, Mr. Mowatt not being fond of the exercise. 
We had also a commodious carriage, and a fine pair of 
coach horses, but May and I preferred horseback ex¬ 
ercise ; driving seemed too quiet an amusement for our 
exuberant spirits. 

From every book which I read I made extracts, and 
wrote down my impressions of the work. These ex¬ 
tracts and critiques I kept in the form of a journal. 
During several years, this journal testified that I had 
read and commented upon between ninety and one 
hundred volumes yearly. 

Every possible means was taken to strengthen my 
constitution through abundance of exercise, and xhus 
to ward off the illnesses to which I was subject. For 
this purpose, Mr. Mowatt taught me the use of the gun. 
He was himself an admirable sportsman. I had many 
fears and some scruples to conquer, but after a time I 
took aim so accurately that I could shoot swallows on 
the wing. Many and many a morning, with a light, 
single-barrelled gun on my shoulder, dressed in half 
Turkish costume, and followed by our dogs, I rambled 
with him for miles through the woods, filling the game 


64 


AUTOBIOGRAPHY OP AN ACTRESS. 


bag which hung at my waist with birds of both our 
shooting. It now appears to me a cruel pastime, and 
bird lives no longer “ stand within my danger.” But 
in those days I seldom saw with my own eyes, or judged 
with my own judgment. 

The first real sorrow I ever knew fell upon my heart 
as I stood beside the death bed of our mother. She 
was summoned away within a year after my marriage. 
For a time it seemed as though all I prized on earth 
had gone with her. Her last hours werb ever present 
to me — the couch where she lay, surrounded by her 
weeping children and their father; her exquisitely 
chiselled features, perfect in their beauty, becoming 
more and more marble-like as her breath grew fainter; 
her transparent hands, that lay passively in ours ; her 
glazing eyes, which, just as she breathed her last, 
beamed with a sudden look of intelligence that fell up¬ 
on her youngest child, our little Julia ; and the seraphic 
smile that settled upon her countenance when the last 
pang was over, and the angels bore her spirit away, — 
sleeping or waking, these were ever before my eyes! 
My pen lingers while I write of her, but what she was 
no pen can truly describe — a being indeed, — 

“ All dipped 

In angel instincts, breathing paradise. 

Happy he 

With such a mother; faith in womankind 
Beats with his blood, and trust in all things high 
Comes easy to him.” 

We gave to our place the name of Melrose ; not from 
any likeness that it bore to Melrose Abbey, but on ac¬ 
count of the abundance of roses, of every description, 
that filled our greenhouses and were scattered over the 
grounds. 


THE FAIR. 


6o 


There was an Episcopal church in the village, which 
we attended, and May and I contributed our services as 
Sunday school teachers. In our little classes we took 
the deepest interest. Then there were two fairs, for 
the benefit of this church, held upon the magnificent 

grounds of Mr. C-n. My sisters presided at a 

table filled with our own work. Little Julia sold flow¬ 
ers and recited poems — I was constituted a fortune 
teller. They erected for me a bower formed of branches 
of evergreens. Over the entrance, in letters made of 
flowers, were the words, “ Temple of Fate." Within 
was a large wheel, of blue and gold, covered with num¬ 
bers. Beside the wheel, somewhat fantastically dressed, 
I stood, with a golden wand in one hand and the “ Book 
of Fate ” in the other. I had written the fortunes in 
verse, and adapted them to the histories of certain per¬ 
sons, who, I was sure, would be present. By pressing 
the wand skilfully upon the wheel, as it turned, I could 
stop it at what number I pleased; and thus I created 
great amusement by the “ happy hits ” directed at 
those who sought to learn their destiny. The “ Temple 
of Fate ” proved highly productive to the interests of 
the church. 

My fondness for rhyming continued undiminished. 
I was tired of fugitive pieces, and determined to write a 
poem of some length. What subject should I choose ?' 
I was reading with great avidity Schlegel’s “ Lectures 
on Literature.” Schlegel remarks that “ Poetry’s ori¬ 
ginal end and highest grade he believes to be epic ” — I 
would write an epic poem! I chose a subject from 
Spanish history, and was soon thoroughly engrossed 
with my new, and to me delightful, occupation. In the 
evenings, I amused myself by reading aloud to Mr. 
5 



66 


AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF AN ACTRESS. 


Mowatt what I had composed in the morning. I wrote 
with juvenile rapidity, and had not yet learned the 
great “ art of blotting out.” In a few months the poem 
was completed. It was entitled, “ Pelayo, or the Cav¬ 
ern of Covadonga — a Poetical Romance in Five Can¬ 
tos, founded on the History of the first King of Astu¬ 
rias.” 

Mr. Mowatt, of course, listened with partial ears, and 
I believe I had a way of making versification sound 
more musical than it was — of creating a sense, through 
certain modulations of voice, which did not exist in the 
words themselves. He proposed that “ Pelayo ” should 
be published. The idea startled me. I was not then 
ambitious. I had thought more of feeding birds and 
taming pigeons than of winning fame. 1 loved to think 
that I possessed a household harp that would make 
pleasant music for the ears of kindred and friends; but 
I shrank from playing my part of imperfect musician 
before the world. Yet I was easily persuaded. The 
authorship of Pelayo was to be kept a profound secret. 
I assumed the name of “ Isabel,” and the book was 
published by the Harpers. 

Its existence was as ephemeral as it deserved to be. 
As readily exterminated by the critics as a butterfly 
could be crushed, it died an easy death. I alone suf 
fered in its expiring agonies. The roseate veil of ma¬ 
ternal love which shrouds the eyes of most young 
writers, when they look at their own productions, had 
not yet fallen from mine. I considered myself a very 
injured individual — a sort of literary martyr — and I 
assumed a Spartan courage in bearing my wrongs, 
which must have been particularly ridiculous. 

Years afterwards I found an old copy of Pelayo, 


PELAYO. 


67 


and read a few lines. Very few they were, for I closed 
the book in mortified astonishment that I should ever 
have written such unmitigated stuff. Nor could I com¬ 
prehend how the blindest affection could have allowed 
me to render it public. 

The preface to Pelayo contained a bombastic threat 
that I would reply to any attacks made upon the book. 
I hurled a Liliputian defiance at the giant critics. 
They were forewarned that I was prepared to defend 
my poetical offspring to the death. Byron’s English 
Bards and Scotch Reviewers was probably running in 
my head ; for, from the ashes of Pelayo sprang up a 
satire , (I use the word because it is on the titlepage,) 
entitled “ Reviewers Reviewed.” The title is suffi¬ 
ciently explanatory in setting forth the object of the 
book. The following extract from the preface betrays 
the impetuous spirit in which it was written: — 

“ Pelayo, the first rude effusion of a warm, though 
untutored heart, was presented to the public with all 
that rainbow hope, that unmingled buoyancy, which 
ever attends the joyous visions of expectant youth. I 
studied not the science of poetry — I heeded not its 
rules; in the enthusiasm of the moment, I only felt 
that Nature formed her poets before Nature’s scorners 
shackled them with their modern trammels. Little did 
I dream, while tracing the carelessly light-toned preface 
of Pelayo, of that literary ordeal to which it was 
offered ; and in some unfortunate allusion to critics, (my 
imagination scarcely painting them as other than ideal 
beings,) I naturally gave vent to the playful exuberance 
of spirit which might have amused a circle of my own 
friends. But if I hoped to find amongst the ‘ wrath¬ 
dispensing race ’ a friend, — if I thought to ward off, or 


68 


AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF AN ACTRESS 


beguile, the tempestuous hurricane of critic censure, — 
I but experienced the same disappointment thousands 
have before encountered — thousands must meet again. 

“ The most inoffensive badinage was interpreted into 
‘ scorn,' and excuses for my conscious deficiency trans¬ 
lated into ‘ self-esteem .’ Had $ just, even though severe, 
criticism been awarded me — had they quoted one line 
of mine, and displayed its excessive faultiness*—had 
they used my own language, and proved its absurdity — 
had they shown how egregiously false was my versifica¬ 
tion, how imperfect my rhymes, or from whence my 
ideas were stolen, (for of accusations of all these 
4 negligences and ignorances * they bestowed on me a 
bountiful share,) I would have submitted, ay, thank¬ 
fully, to the scourge which brought improvement with its 
sting; but they gathered from the preface that Pelayo 
was written at the early age of sixteen — that proper 
attention had not been devoted to its revision — and 
that I, myself, was conscious of its innumerable defects ; 
and, without further examination, they made the above 
sweeping allegations. I do not, cannot, deny their 
truth ; I am at variance only with the spirit that dic¬ 
tated them, and their want of demonstrative proof. 

“ Another objection was urged against Pelayo, 
which, not from me alone, but from the lips and soul of 
every patriotic American, demands reply ; namely, the 
extreme folly of publishing poetry when its age was on 
the wane. In the old world, where the Muse’s glory 
has reached its meridian height, her power may well 
decline. But are not we of the new world ? and shines 
she here, or has she ever shone, in full maturity and 
splendor* arrayed in laurels from which time has 
plucked no leaf? How revolting to our national pride 


REVIEWERS REVIEWED. 


69 


how humiliating, to believe that America should only 
produce a sickly poetic fire, expiring at its birth ! Can 
poetry be on the wane while such men as Halleck and 
Bryant are in their prime ? Though its infant pinions 
yet are weak, may they not one day soar beyond even 
proud Albion’s constellated host of bards ? ” 

One word in extenuation of the above extract — I 
was hardly eighteen when it was published. 

“ Reviewers Reviewed” attracted some attention. 
The book had a larger sale than Pelayo, and was now 
and then favorably noticed, probably through the sym¬ 
pathy of some criti® who had himself been lashed by his 
contemporaries. I wrote no more under the signature 
of “ Isabel.” My greatest desire now was to preserve 
my incognita. I did not suppose it possible for the day 
ever to come when I should confess with perfect sang 
froid the “ youthful indiscretion ” of perpetrating 
such books as Pelayo and Reviewers Reviewed. As 
a child weeps over the fall of its card houses, so I 
mourned over the demolition of my first poetic castles, 
but cherishing the consolatory hope that mansions of 
after years would have surer foundation. 

We still resided at Melrose. Occasionally I visited 
my family and friends in New York. Now and then 
we attended the theatre and other places of amuse¬ 
ment, but my principal delight was in receiving guests 
at home. We gave numerous fetes, but never mere 
dancing parties. They were always either of a poetic, 
musical, or dramatic character. One of these, and the 
most worthy of mention, was in celebration of my sev¬ 
enteenth birthday. Four of my friends had offered to 
write me birthday poems, and recite them in the even¬ 
ing, after our guests were assembled. Without hint- 


STO AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF AN ACTRESS. 

ing my intention, I determined to surprise them with 
versified replies; though, of course, I could only guess 
at the subject matter of their effusions. I passed a 
happy day in decking the house with garlands, and rob¬ 
bing our own and our neighbors’ greenhouses of all the 
flowers that they could yield. In a little rustic basket, 
covered with geranium leaves, lay four exquisite bou¬ 
quets. To each bouquet was attached a tiny scroll. 
These were designed for the four poets. The scrolls 
contained the verses addressed to the different parties. 

Evening brought a merry throng of guests. After 
refreshments, and some exquisite ipusic from a friend 
who never failed me, an arm chair was drawn into the 

centre of the room by Mr. L-n, the chief of my 

birthday poets. He advanced to lead me to my tempo¬ 
rary throne; but, declining his hand, I stole out of the 
room, and, before he had recovered from his surprise at 
the apparent rudeness, returned with my basket of 
bouquets. I took the vacant seat. The four minstrels 

gathered around me, and Mr. L-n commenced 

reciting a very beautiful, original poem, which was lis¬ 
tened to with breathless attention. At the line, — 

“ And thus we crown thee, Cora, queen,” — 

he drew forth a concealed wreath of natural flowers, 
made in the form of a regal crown, and placed it on my 
head. For this coronation I was quite unprepared. 
When he ceased to speak, the applause and the con¬ 
gratulations of the company expressed their delight. 

Ungracious as it seemed, I sat perfectly still until 
silence was restored; then, selecting the bouquet (or 
breast knot, rather) which I had prepared for him, 
uttered my thanks in verse, and presented the flowers. 




MY SEVENTEENTH BIRTHDAY. 


71 


The general surprise may well be imagined. The three 
poetesses then addressed me in turn ; and, as each one 
finished, I replied, presenting the bouquets and scrolls. 
The rustic basket was not yet quite emptied; there 
remained another paper of plain white, folded like a 
letter. 

“ Is that for me ? ” “ Is that for me ? ” asked many 
an eager voice, as I broke the seal and prepared to 
read. When the curiosity of the company had reached 
its highest pitch, I read aloud the name of the one per¬ 
son present who, I was sure, least expected that he had 
been made the subject of a poem — a plain, kind- 
hearted, merry old gentleman of the ancient school — 
the oldest, truest, most attached friend of Mr. Mowatt. 
How he started from his seat when he heard the words 
« To J-H-d ”! 

One might have thought a leaden and not a “ paper 
bullet ” had entered his ears. The poem was read, and 
presented, and praised, and long life was wished the 
queen and many such another birthday. The music 
recommenced, and we 

“ Chased the rosy hours with flying feet." 

So passed my seventeenth birthday. 

Almost every week, my sister May and I, with the 
assistance of little Julia, who made us frequent visits, 
got up some rural entertainment, principally for our 
own amusement and that of Mr. Mowatt, who invited 
his friends or not, just as he felt disposed. Very often 
he formed our sole audience. We dignified these enter¬ 
tainments by the name of “ concerts,” and always had 
written programmes of the performance. The songs 
were intermingled with recitations and scenes from 




72 


AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF AN ACTRESS. 


tragedies. Music was one of our chief studies ; but, 
with the fullest appreciation of its beauties, we were 
devoid of any decided musical talent. I except little 
Julia, who had naturally a good ear and sweet voice. 
I also possessed a voice which my teachers pronounced 
more than ordinarily fine; but I had a faulty ear, and 
the slightest trepidation made me sing false. For years 
I labored to conquer this defect, but I never could learn 
to sing before strangers to my own satisfaction — per¬ 
haps I should add, to theirs ! 

Besides our weekly (burlesque) concerts, we fre¬ 
quently prepared exhibitions of tableaux vivants for 
our friends, which were eminently successful. Then 
we several times enacted, for different assemblages of 
guests, an original play. This was my first positive 
attempt as a dramatist. It was called 

“THE GYPSY WANDERER, 

OR 

THE STOLEN CHILD. 

An Operetta. 

DEDICATED TO MY SISTER JULIA.” 

The play — or dramatic sketch — was written in blank 
verse, and interspersed with numerous songs. Little 
Julia was, of course, the heroine. As our corps drama- 
tique consisted of but three, it required some ingenuity 
to invent a play the interest of which should be sus¬ 
tained by three characters. The plot was very simple, 
and yet proved effective in acting. I personated “ Lady 
Ivon,” a broken-hearted young widow, whose infant 
child had been stolen some years previously by gypsies. 
My sister May enacted “ Lucille,” the niece and con 


THE GYPSY WANDERER. 


73 


fidant of Lady Ivon. Little Julia was “ Florette,” 
the stolen child. The scene opens with Lady Ivon and 
Lucille. Lucille induces Lady Ivon to relate the his¬ 
tory of her sorrows, through which means the audience 
is of course apprised of them. Suddenly their conver¬ 
sation is interrupted by the voice of a gypsy child 
singing without, who begs for charity in her song. Lu¬ 
cille desires to turn her from the doors, on account of 
her obnoxious race. Lady Ivon objects. The little 
Florette enters, dressed as a gypsy, with a bundle of 
small brooms slung over her shoulders, a bunch of lav¬ 
ender in one hand, and a basket of flowers in the other. 
The ladies question her, and she answers with snatches 
of old ballads; now with 

“ Over the mountain and over the moor, 

Hungry and weary, I wander forlorn ; 

My father is dead, and my mother is poor, 

And I mourn for the days that will never return ; ” 

then with “ Buy a broom,” presenting her tiny 
brooms; or with u Come, buy my lavender,” distributing 
her lavender. 

Lady Ivon, of course, traces a likeness between this 
child and the one she lost, and is greatly agitated. The 
little Florette makes known all she can remember of 
herself, and Lucille discovers a mystical circlet bound 
over her arm. Florette entreats that this may not be 
removed; it is a charm placed there by a gypsy proph¬ 
etess of her tribe, and she has been warned that evil 
would befall her should it ever be loosened. Of course, 
her prayers are unheeded — the band is hastily torn 
away. It concealed a natural mark, by means of which 
Lady Ivon recognizes her child, and the dramatic sketch 


74 


AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF AN ACTRESS. 


ends in a tableau . Its representation occupied an hour 
and a half. 

About this period I began to write fugitive pieces, 
which were published in various magazines, under the 
signature of “ Cora.” The first to which I allowed this, 
my own name, to be attached, was a bridal address to 
my sister Emma. When the bride and bridegroom, 
after the ceremony, returned from church to our father’s 
house, little Julia came forward and greeted them with 
this address. Her delivery, and not the poem itself, 

produced a deep impression. Dr. H-ks, who had 

officiated, was much moved, and his were not the only 
eyes “ unused to weep ” that found themselves involun¬ 
tarily moistened by the pathetic tones and earnest de¬ 
livery of a child of eight years old. While my little 
pupil was speaking, I scanned the countenances of those 
around, and what I read there gave me more intense 
delight than did ever, in after years, the most enthusi¬ 
astic applause that pealed in my ears. 

My health had been for some time failing. I was no 
longer allowed to study; I was forbidden to write. 
Physicians pronounced me consumptive, and recom¬ 
mended a sea voyage. My newly-married sister and 
her husband were about to visit Europe. It was ar¬ 
ranged that I, and an aunt to whom I was warmly 
attached, should accompany them. Mr. Mowatt’s pro¬ 
fessional engagements prevented his leaving New York. 

The first parting from home, and the loved ones left 
behind, was naturally a severe trial. Had I been less 
seriously indisposed, I should have rebelled at the ban¬ 
ishment. But excessive weakness enabled me to bid 
farewell with tearless eyes, and a sensation of icy calm¬ 
ness, which even the passionate grief of my beloved 



DEPARTURE FOR EUROPE. 


75 


companion, my sweet sister May, could not disturb. 
In a poem, (written in the third person,) composed on 
board of ship, descriptive of the parting, the following 
lines occur in allusion to this sister. They portray the 
closeness of our union: — 

She, for many moons, had been 
The loved companion of her lonely hours. 

They dwelt together — from the selfsame page 
Had read — laughed gayly o’er the same light tales, 

Sang the same songs, or strove , perchance, to sing— 

For each had more of “ music in her soul,” 

And harmony in her love, than melody 
Upon her lips. Arm softly linked in arm, 

Each sunny morn had they strolled loving forth 
To take unmarked their pleasant rambles through 
The little village where the elder dwelt, 

And where the younger felt her home to be. 

We sailed in the ship Roscius, under the command 
of Captain Collins. I remained very ill for the first 
two weeks, but, before the voyage was completed, began 
to make rapid strides towards health. My cough had 
nearly disappeared, and I was more free from suffering 
than I had been for months previous. We reached 
Liverpool in three weeks, and hastened to London. 


CHAPTER IV. 


Journal of a Week passed in London. — Olympic Theatre. — Madame 
Vestris. — St. Paul’s Cathedral. — The Tower. — The Tunnel. — 
Italian Opera. — Persiani. — Coliseum. — Zoological Gardens .— 
Hyde Park. — Madame Tussaud’s. — St. James’s Theatre. — 
House of Lords. — Westminster. — British Museum. — Kensington 
Gardens. — Richmond. — Standing “ in wait ” for the Queen. — 
Departure from London. 

We spent but a week — one delightful week — in 
London. How little I then thought that it would be 
my lot to return there to pass years! — to return, no 
longer the thoughtless, happy girl, passing unnoticed in 
the crowd, and enjoying every moment of her exist¬ 
ence, but the grief-tried woman,— standing where all 
eyes were fixed upon her, — with public duties, private 
cares, professional responsibilities, and the lives of 
others bound up in hers. My glowing impressions of 
that first week in London are conveyed in the follow¬ 
ing hasty journal, addressed to Mr. Mowatt: — 

“ONE WEEK IN LONDON. 

“We arrived late on Thursday evening, wearied out 
with our eleven hours’ journey from Liverpool; but, 
dashing along the smooth roads, after we had left the 
train, sleep was soon banished from our drooping eye¬ 
lids. The gaslights shed around us a flood of radiance, 
which gave the city the appearance of an illumination, 

( 76 ) 


LONDON. 


77 


and every object was as distinctly visible as at midday 
That freshness of feeling which belongs to the inexperi¬ 
enced traveller imparted a zest to our slightest enjoy¬ 
ments. Trivial objects, which would have been glanced 
at unheeded by the more sophisticated, called forth from 
us exclamations of wondering astonishment. 

44 That we might present a somewhat more civilized 
appearance in this land of splendor and gayety, we de¬ 
voted Friday to shopping. A private carriage was 

ordered, and, with what our friend J. H-d would 

call 4 very wide-awake ’ expressions of countenance, we 
set out on our first drive. There were so many attrac¬ 
tions on every side, that I, at least, soon became too 

bewildered to know which way to turn. Aunt - 

would cry, 4 Look, look, look here! ’ putting her head 
out of one window of the carriage, while Emma ejac¬ 
ulated, £ Quick, quick, or you will miss seeing this! ’ and 
forced her slight figure half out of the other. While I 
was trying to accomplish the impossibility of 4 looking 
both ways at once,’ I, part of the time, saw nothing. 

4 ‘ Every moment our attention was riveted by some¬ 
thing new. The wide and cleanly streets, through 
which six carriages not unfrequently flew by abreast — 
the velocity with which the gayly-colored ‘Ays’ and 
4 cabs ’ (so unlike any of our vehicles at home) dashed 
along the macadamized roads — the liveried coachmen 
and footmen, who apparently form one third of the pop¬ 
ulace, and, when not behind their masters’ carriages, 
lounge idly about the doorsteps — the palace-like shops, 
magnificent without and sumptuous within — rooms de¬ 
voted to millinery and mantuamaking, furnished as gor¬ 
geously and as tastefully as drawing rooms at home — 
every thing in turn awakened our astonishment and 




78 


AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF AN ACTRESS. 


admiration. We could hardly say with what we were 
most charmed, unless it was the splendid buildings with 
which London is as thickly studded as the queen’s crown 
with jewels. 

“ A particular delight to me were the little sparrows 
and swallows, which, in spite of all this pomp and 
splendor, hopped tamely about the streets, chirping 
most musically as they gathered straws or threads to 
build their nests with in the roofs of the houses. I 
amused myself by flinging bits of worsted out of the 
window, and watching the fearless little creatures as 
they alighted, almost at the feet of some passer by, to 
pick up these treasures. 

“ The attendance in London is excellent. You are 
always at liberty to fancy yourself a princess , for you 
are treated as one; but you must pay as princesses do, 
or are supposed to do. Before your coachman can 
jump from his seat, the door is opened by some little 
rogue, the steps let down, and his hat touched signifi¬ 
cantly. If you take no notice of this, he plainly asks 
you to spare something for the drinking of your health. 
His manner very markedly implie."' that thus alone can 
its preservation be secured. Three or four waiters (in 
tights and pumps) attend you to your carriage; but you 
are expected to slip some silver in their hands for hand¬ 
ing you in, or even picking up your handkerchief. The 
very play bills at the theatres are sold by men who run 
beside your carriage, and crowd around to force them 
upon you before you alight. Every body is feed, and 
for the slightest service you must cross the doer’s hand 
with silver. 

“We spent the whole of Friday in making purchases 
and strolling through bazaars and shops. I must give 


MADAME YESTRIS. 


79 


you some idea of the expedition of London dressmakers. 
At five o’clock we drove to a court dressmaker, that I 
might be measured for a dress to be worn the next even¬ 
ing at the opera. In eight minutes (three of which 
were passed in astonishment at my giving my name as 
a married woman) I was fitted and in the carriage again! 
The dress came home the next morning, and became me 
a merveille. 

“ Friday evening we visited the Olympic Theatre. 
With Madame Yestris we were all of us charmed. I 
now understand why she was not appreciated in Amer¬ 
ica. This is her sphere — she is the planet round which 
her satellites move. Drawing light from her, they shine 
themselves, and thus add to her lustre. She is nothing 
alone — she must have a certain entourage to develop 
and set forth her powers. One could discern a woman’s 
taste and woman’s hand in all the most minute arrange¬ 
ments of this theatre. There was just enough light to 
give proper effect; the scenery and dresses were histor¬ 
ically appropriate ; every character of the play, even 
down to the postilions and waiters, was well sustained. 
The illusion was thus rendered perfect. 

“ The entertainment consisted of a series of light 
pieces, by turns serious or comic, each (like Miss Edge¬ 
worth’s tales) with its moral, and filled with patriotic 
and loyal sentiments, which drew down thunders of 
applause from the attentive audience. Madame Yes¬ 
tris herself sang a little ballad, commencing 4 Here’s a 
health to her majesty,’ in the most bewitching manner. 
A large portion of the audience stood while she was 
singing, (I presume in token of their loyalty,) and she 
was again and again encored. The theatre is very 
small, but a perfect bijou. The only light (excepting 


80 


AUTOBIOGRAPHY OP AN ACTRESS. 


those on the stage) proceeds from one large chandelier 
suspended from the ceiling. Here, as at the entrance 
of every other place of public artiusement, her majesty’s 
officers are stationed, and prevent disturbance. 

“ On Saturday morning we drove around Somerset 
Square, a magnificent edifice, formerly a palace, but 
now degenerated into law offices. When the building 
was in progress, a watch fell from the pocket of a mason 
on the roof, and lodged between two stones near the 
third story window, and yet remains distinctly visible, 
but beyond reach. 

“We then wended our way to St. Paul’s Cathedral, 
second only to St. Peter’s at Rome. Where shall I 
find words to describe to you this stupendous pile ? ” 

Here followed a long account, which I omit — St. 
Paul’s has been so frequently and so much more ably 
described. 

“ From the Cathedral we drove to the Tower. With 
the latter I was greatly disappointed — perhaps because 
the impressions left by the former were still so fresh 
upon my mind. I thought the Tower bore a strong re¬ 
semblance to some vast museum. We were conducted 
about by an attendant warden in the queen’s livery. 
There was a golden crown, and the letters V. R., (Vic¬ 
toria Regina,) embroidered on the back of his coat. 
He made his« explanatory remarks in the set • phrase 
and monotonous tone of an automaton. 

“ This Tower was formerly a royal residence, but, 
since the reign of Elizabeth, has been occupied as a 
state prison, royal arsenal, and place of safety for the 
jewels of the crown. 

“From the Tower we drove to the Tunnel. I should 
like an estimate to be made of the number of steps 


ITALIAN OPERA. 


81 


which we ascended and descended that day. It could 
hardly fall short of a thousand, — a sort of exercise which 
gives one a capital idea of the treadmill. You are aware 
that the Tunnel is a capacious roadway, excavated under 
the Thames; the descent is long and wearisome. The 
Tunnel is now eight hundred and seventy feet in length, 
and its entire length is to be one thousand three hundred 
feet. The river has several times broken in, and much 
impeded the progress of the work. We had no time to 
remain here, for it was late in the afternoon. We drove 
back to the hotel, dined hastily, and then made our toi¬ 
lets for the Italian opera. The opera company only 
sing twice each week. Strange to say, Saturday is the 
most fashionable night. The audience are all en cos¬ 
tume de bal. 

“ The opera house is aoout three times the size of 
our Park Theatre. It has five tiers of boxes — the 
audience are mostly an assemblage of nobility. I do 
not quite understand how it is that their boxes can be 
hired. By paying a sufficiently exorbitant price, we 
obtained the Duchess of Grosvenor’s box without diffi¬ 
culty. The queen was present; but our republican 
curiosity was not gratified, for she sat directly beneath 
our loge. 

“ The opera was Lucia di Lammermoor, with which 
you are very familiar ; but you are not familiar with 
the almost inspired tones of Persiani, that charm and 
electrify her audience by turns. Her mad scene was 
painfully powerful — terribly beautiful. One or two 
of the airs have haunted me ever since. We have 
heard no such voices in America as those of Tamburini 
and Rubini. 

“ The next day, being Sunday, was indeed a day of 

6 


82 


AUTOBIOGRAPHY OP AN ACTRESS. 


rest. We attended St. Martin’s Church. Early on 
Monday morning, we started anew on sightseeing ex¬ 
peditions. Our first visit was to the Coliseum. The 
panorama, which represents a view of London from 
the top of St. Paul’s Cathedral, is very superb. After 
spending some time in a minute examination, we were 
taken up to the top of the Coliseum, in the curious 
ascending room which rises from story to story, without 
any perceptible motion. Afterwards we visited the 
saloon, where there are many exquisite specimens of 
sculpture, then the conservatories, the Swiss cot¬ 
tage, the Alpine glen, the waterworks, and the gar¬ 
dens. In the Swiss cottage we sat upon the chair 
which was made for Queen Adelaide when she was 
about to visit the Coliseum — in the same chair Victo¬ 
ria has also reposed. 

“ Through the Zoological Gardens we rambled for 
nearly four hours, and were forced to leave without 
feeling as though we had seen all that was worthy of 
attention. 

“ From the gardens we drove to Hyde Park, to see 
the queen. A large concourse of people were assem¬ 
bled at the gates for the same purpose. We were dis¬ 
appointed in seeing her majesty, but fully repaid by the 
scene itself. I believe no resort in London affords so 
excellent an opportunity of reviewing the fashionable 
world. The spacious gravelled roads are covered with 
ladies and gentlemen, mounted on magnificent horses, 
and followed by their grooms. Our simplicity-loving 
eyes were almost dazzled by the fanciful and some¬ 
times fantastic liveries, and the rich coloring of the 
gorgeous equipages that roll by in endless succession. 
Many of these carriages were of two different hues 


MADAME TUSSAUD’S. 


83 


intermingled — others of the most delicate pink, blue, 
light maroon, and I have seen even scarlet. The arms 
of the nobility to whom they belong are painted on the 
panels, and their crests embroidered in gold on the ham¬ 
mer cloth. Some of the coachmen and footmen wore 
white powdered wigs and cocked hats. They all looked 
to me as though they had just started up out of Cinder¬ 
ella’s pumpkin. 

“ Opposite the central arch of the grand entrance to 
Hyde Park is a colossal statue of Achilles, erected by 
the English ladies in honor of the Duke of Wellington. 

“ We had left the hotel immediately after breakfast, 
but only returned home in time to dine by candlelight. 
We then visited Madame Tussaud’s exhibition of wax 
figures, and spent the evening in promenading through 
her large and brilliantly-illuminated saloon. One group 
of statues consisted of the royal family and other cele¬ 
brated personages. Victoria is represented as she ap¬ 
peared at her coronation. She is seated on a throne — 
the crown on her brow, in one hand the sceptre, and 
in the other a golden ball. The Lord Bishop of Can¬ 
terbury is imploring a blessing ; Lord Melbourne hold¬ 
ing the sword of state; the Duke of Devonshire, his 
highness the Duke of Cambridge, the Duchess of Kent, 
and other members of the nobility are grouped around. 

“ In the midst of another group stands the lamented 
Princess Charlotte of Wales. Her face wears an ex¬ 
pression of the most angelic sweetness. 

“Another group is composed of Mary, Queen of 
Scots, refusing to sign the document by which she 
renounces her crown — Baron Ruthven, in a ferocious 
attitude, is attempting to compel her, the good Sir Robert 
Melville endeavoring to appease his wrath, and a ven- 


84 


AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF AN ACTRESS. 


erable monk gazing with indignation at the brutal baron 
who insults his mistress. 

“ Amongst the statues were those of Sliakspeare, By¬ 
ron, Scott, Kemble, Mrs. Siddons, and Malibran. One 
of the greatest curiosities is the figure of the beautiful 
Madame St. Amaranth, who rejected the disgraceful 
solicitations of Robespierre, and thus became the victim 
of his fury. She is stretched upon a couch in a dying 
attitude. Her bosom gently heaves to and fro like that 
of an expiring person ; you might almost fancy that you 
felt her breath. Several of the statues move their heads 
so naturally that we at first mistook them for human be¬ 
ings. A mistake of precisely the opposite character 
occasioned us some confusion and no little merriment. 
An elderly lady was seated near the figure of Voltaire, 
intently gazing in his face. I placed my hand upon her 
shoulder, and said to Emma, ‘ O, look at this one; it 
is capitally executed! ’ The supposed statue turned its 
eyes upon me, and rose up to a terrible height, (as I 
thought,) with an annihilating expression. I did not 
sink into the earth, as the tall gentlewoman seemed 
to imagine that I was bound to do; but as soon as I 
could recover from a sensation of half-frightened sur¬ 
prise, I hurriedly begged her pardon. She swept by us 
without a word. Who could have helped laughing ? 

“ The adjoining room, a veritable chamber of horrors, 
represents the interior of the Bastile. It is filled with 
heads of persons taken after their execution. The first 
was Marat, who was put to death by Charlotte Corday. 
Then came the heads of Robespierre, of Stewart and 
his wife, of Barriere, &c., all of them taken a few hours 
after execution. A model of the guillotine completed 
this most detestable exhibition. You probably remem- 


WESTMINSTER. 


85 


ber that the fatal instrument was invented by Mr. Guil- 
lotin, a French physician, who actually died of grief 
caused by the horrible use made of his invention. 

“ Tuesday it stormed, and we devoted the morning to 
letter writing. In the afternoon we visited the National 
Historical Gallery and Miss Linwood’s exhibition. In 
the evening we attended the St. James Theatre. The 
theatre itself was worthy of all admiration. Not so the 
performance. The actors were monkeys and dogs. I 
confess that even the novelty of the exhibition could not 
lend it a charm. 

“ Our first visit on Wednesday was to the new House 
of Lords; the old one was burned in the late fire. We 
saw the throne which Victoria occupies when she opens 
Parliament; sat on the woolsack (and a very comforta¬ 
ble, good-natured sort of seat it is) appropriated to the 
Lord Chancellor, and examined the steps where the Duke 
of Essex stumbled on approaching the queen. 

“ From the House of Lords, with our expectations 
raised to the highest pitch, we crossed to Westminster 
Abbey. I shall not even attempt a description of what 
appears to me indescribable. I will only tell you of the 
monument that made the deepest impression. It was that 
of Lord and Lady Nightingale in the chapel of St. John. 
The expiring form of Lady Nightingale lies in the arms 
of her agonized husband, while ‘ grim-visaged Death ’ 
steals from beneath a tomb, and aims his unerring dart 
at the bosom of the dying woman. Her husband ex¬ 
tends one arm imploringly to the king of terrors, and 
with the other folds his fragile wife to the bosom which 
cannot protect her from that one foe. 

“ We lingered a long time in the ‘ Poets’ Corner,’ 
and talked of the illustrious dead. And we sat on the 


86 


AUTOBIOGRAPHY OP AN ACTRESS. 


chair in which her majesty and preceding sovereigns 
were crowned. 

“ From the abbey we drove to the celebrated British 
Museum, a vast receptacle of millions of wonders both 
of art and nature. Here the rest of the day was prof¬ 
itably consumed. We had only time to take a short 
drive through Hyde Park before dinner. We were 
too much fatigued to visit any place of amusement in 
the evening, and retired early. 

“ Early on Thursday morning we drove to Kensing¬ 
ton Gardens, which adjoin Hyde Park. There is a 
lovely quietude about these beautiful gardens, which 
contrasts strangely with their noisy and more fashion¬ 
able vicinity. Kensington Palace, to which the gar¬ 
dens are attached, was the former residence of the 
Duchess of Kent and Princess Victoria. It has little 
pretensions to grandeur — is built of old-fashioned 
looking brick, and reared with neither elegance nor 
taste. 

“ From the gardens we drove to Richmond, enchant¬ 
ing Richmond! Thomson’s Seasons were in our minds 
and on our lips, and their delightful association enhanced 
the charm of every prospect. I think this was the most 
agreeable drive I have ever yet taken. We all de¬ 
clared that there was no place we cared to visit after 
Richmond; and there we spent the remainder of the 
day, wandering about in a state of dreamy delight, and 
chiding the setting sun (which we viewed from Rich¬ 
mond Hill) for warning us to return homewards. 

“On Friday we were occupied in packing. We 
were to leave for Hamburg in the evening. As we 
stood in the midst of an army of trunks, in the 4 very 
heat of battle,’ — a battle waged against the impossi- 


STANDING “ IN WAIT ” FOR THE QUEEN. 87 

bility of making them contain more than they could 

hold, — H- entered hastily and told us that the 

queen was expected to visit the National Gallery of 
Paintings. A crowd had already collected at a short 
distance; if we made haste, we might see her. Our 
toilets were rapidly completed, and we soon formed a 
portion of the expectant crowd. For an hour and a 
half we stood patiently waiting, listening to the doubts 
expressed by some, and the confident assurances of 
others, that her majesty would shortly pass. We then 
walked to St. James’s Square, (more than a mile off,) in 
the hope of seeing her there. Again disappointed, we 
returned to our former station; but after remaining 
there another hour, we were forced to return to the 
hotel to finish our packing. The queen passed three 
hours afterwards. 

“ On the loveliest moonlight night I ever beheld, we 
bade adieu to London, with the earnest hope that we 
might one day return.” 



CHAPTER Y. 


Hamburg. — Bremen. — American Ladies supposed to be black. — 
Incident at a Dinner Party. — Bridal Address translated into Ger¬ 
man. — Usages and Manners of the Northern Germans. — Dinner 
Parties. — Funeral Customs. — Betrothal and Bridal Customs .— 
Bremen Cathedral. — Peculiarity of the Vault. — Corpses four 
Centuries old in a State of Preservation. — Robbing the Student of 
a Lock of Hair. — Frei Markt. — Our Housekeeping in Ger¬ 
many. — Studies. —Arrival of Mr. Mowatt. — His long Illness. — 
Departure for Paris. 


Twenty-four hours after our departure from Lon¬ 
don, we reached Hamburg by steamboat. Our passage 
across the North Sea was smooth and pleasant. In 
Hamburg we remained one week, visiting all places of 
interest and of public amusement within our reach. 
We were so constantly “on the wing” that I had no 
leisure to keep any record of our swallow-like flights. 
From Hamburg we proceeded to Bremen, travelling 
part of the way by schnell post. One of our party, 
who did not comprehend German, remarked that prob¬ 
ably schnell post meant snail post, judging from the slow 
and tedious mode of progression. She was particularly 
indignant when the swiftness implied by the word schnell 
was translated to her, but consoled herself with the 
reflection that the expression was probably used in 
irony. 

In Bremen resided the parents and relatives of our 
new brother-in-law. An amusing incident took place 
when he first presented to them his young wife. A 

( 88 ) 


AMERICAN LADIES SUPPOSED TO BE BLACK. 89 


servant, who had resided some time in his father’s fam¬ 
ily, concealed herself behind the street door to catch the 
first glimpse of my sister. During the tender embraces 
with which she was welcomed by her warmhearted 
relatives, the servant could not see her face, which wa3 
shadowed by a profusion of long, dark ringlets; but 
when the greeting was over, and she was conducted into 
the drawing room, and her bonnet removed, the girl had 
a full view of her countenance. As her mistress passed 
out of the room, she rushed to her, exclaiming in Ger¬ 
man, “ O, she’s white ! she’s not black — only her hair. 

I thought Master H- had married an American 

woman, and brought you home a black daughter-in-law! ” 
More intelligent individuals than this German madchen 
were possessed with the belief that America produced 
only a race of negroes. 

In Bremen our time passed most delightfully. My 
sister was feted and courted for her own sake, as well as 
on account of her husband’s position as a popular and 
influential merchant. My aunt and I shared in the 
hospitalities offered to them. 

At the first large dinner party given to my brother 
and sister, when their healths were proposed, a gentleman 
rose and recited to them a poem in German. There 
was a great deal of applause — their glasses were 
touched by all present, and their healths drunk. Im¬ 
mediately afterwards the health of the “ dichterin ” 
(poetess) was offered. What was my astonishment 
when all eyes were turned upon me ! I could only look 
with a questioning stare into the face of the gentleman 
who, having proposed the health, addressed me in a 
then unknown tongue . My surprise and confusion were 
not lessened when I perceived a host of outstretched 



90 


AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF AN ACTRESS. 


hands, every one holding a wine glass towards me. 
I looked at the challenging wine glasses in amaze¬ 
ment— then at my own, which I did not attempt to lift 
to meet theirs — then at my brother-in-law, petitioning 
in dumb show that he would explain what was expected 
of me. He was seated at some distance, but made a 
sign for me to touch my glass to the offered glasses. I 
did so, and the health of the “ dichterin ” was drunk. 
I joined in,, and stupidly drank my own health, for I 
had not then discovered that I was the “ dichterin.” 

A gentleman at my side, who could only speak a few 
words of English, enlightened me by saying, (i Dich¬ 
terin, dat is you — you pretty poem write your sister — 
Mr. B-make German of.” 

The Bridal Address which was recited at my sister’s 
nuptials had been translated into German without her 
knowledge or mine. These were the verses addressed 
to her when her health was proposed. Our kind Ger¬ 
man friends were very enthusiastic in regard to the 
poem, for which I was probably indebted to the trans¬ 
lator. As for the original, it could only have been to 
them 

“ Like inarticulate breathings from a shrine 
Their fancy took for granted was divine.” 

Soon after this, to my great surprise, the Bridal 
Address appeared in the London Weekly Gazette. It 
was inserted (at least, I so believe) by the editors, with¬ 
out the influence or knowledge of any of my friends, as 
an American production worthy of being quoted ; all 
which to a youthful authoress was sufficiently gratify¬ 
ing. From that moment the self-mistrust which had 
always chilled me, when I was persuaded to make pub¬ 
lic what I wrote, began to melt away. I continued to 



USAGES OF THE NORTHERN GERMANS. 


91 


write on various subjects, in poetry and prose, and sent 
home occasional articles, which were published in the 
popular magazines of the day. The following, which 
appeared in the Ladies’ Companion, gives my impres¬ 
sions of the manners and customs by which I was 
surrounded : — 

“USAGES AND MANNERS OF THE NORTHERN GERMANS. 

“ There is, perhaps, no entertainment where so much 
tediousness and enjoyment, so much vivacity and dul- 
ness, are incongruously mingled as at a German dinner 
party of the present day: enjoyment , because sufficient 
wit and humor are congregated to speed Time on the 
wings of Pleasure — tediousness , because even Pleasure 
tires at length of using her wings, and leaves Time to 
hang heavily about the shoulders of those she forsakes. 
Four, even jive , hours passed at the table is considered 
no unusual sitting ; and charmed must the voice be if its 
tones sink not into monotony, and bright the wit, if its 
flashes, tested through this weary ordeal' lose none of 
their brilliancy. 

“ The name of each invited guest, written on a slip 
of paper, is found on the plate designed for his use; and 
in this manner the hostess reserves the privilege of 
joining those whose characters and fancies assimilate, 
and separating such as are at variance or of uncongenial 
temperaments; thus, with the ever-needful assistance 
of the peacemaker, Tact, insuring the harmony of her 
entertainment. 

“ When dinner is announced, each gentleman prome¬ 
nades a lady around the table until her name is discov¬ 
ered, then leaves her to seek the seat assigned to himself, 
and though nobody enjoys the privilege of changing his 


92 


AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF AN ACTRESS. 


place, a timely hint to the hostess is not without its 
influence in securing the most agreeable one. 

“ The festive board is gorgeously spread with vases 
of costly china, perfuming the air with the bright-hued 
plunder of the greenhouse and garden, garlands of 
flowers, baskets of luscious fruits, and a profusion of 
tempting preserves, and fanciful confectionery, to delight 
the eye; while the other senses are gratifying themselves 
with the smoking and highly-seasoned viands, carved by 
the servants at side tables, and handed separately around 
the general board. 

“ The company once seated, a stranger is attracted by 
the courteous custom which makes each person turn with 
a smiling countenance to his neighbor, and, bowing, wish 
him 1 einen guten appetit; ’ for there ‘.s a good-humored 
politeness in this social usage, which inspires a kindly 
feeling towards those in whose society you are thrown. 
You meet together to while away a few jovial hours, to 
make acquaintances of strangers, or draw closer the 
bonds of friendship around acquaintances already made ; 
and your intercourse commences with a friendly wish, 
responded by every lip, which seems to give you, even 
though strangers, some emotion in common, some desire, 
which, being mutual, assists in establishing that ease 
without which enjoyment may be assumed, but never 
really felt. 

“ It would be in vain to attempt describing the order 
of courses, which vary from fifteen to twenty, and are 
principally remarkable for the present mode of serving 
pudding before meat; between each course, an interval, 
which would be long, unshortened by the agreeable con¬ 
verse of those around, is permitted to intervene. 

“ In the avowed land of melody, it seems almost use- 


GERMAN DINNER PARTIES. 


93 


less to mention that the most exquisite songs and finest 
instrumental music form a delightful part of this as of 
every festivity. A number of toasts are usually drunk, 
accompanied by speeches from their proposers; each 
glass, when filled, being raised and lightly touched to 
the one nearest on either side, is made to send forth a 
musical, ringing sound, peculiarly merry and pleasant to 
the ear ; and, so dexterously is this ceremony sometimes 
performed, that the simultaneously joined glasses, circling 
the table, seem to form symbolic links of the social 
chain that unites those who hold them, which, (as they 
generally drink claret,) in lightness and rosiness , may be 
further compared to these emblematic fetters. If the 
health of one of the company, as an especial honor, be 
proposed, every glass is touched to his, and gentlemen 
seated at a distance from the person toasted ordinarily 
rise, and approach him, that their glasses may come in 
collision. The health of the host and hostess, with an 
acknowledgment of their hospitality, is never omitted; 
and the beautiful or humorous sentiments expressed in 
tl^ese toasts are an unbounded source of entertainment. 

“ After a number of courses have been served, the 
host leaves his seat, and, slowly making the tour of the 
table, pauses beside each guest, to whisper kind wishes, 
or make some civil inquiry, or lively jest, which soon 
spreads amongst the company. I once saw a charming 
old gentleman, the snows of many a winter wreathing his 
brow, who was promenading around his convivial board, 
when he reached the chair of his still blooming wife, and 
she raised her good-tempered face, (which had been smil¬ 
ingly turned towards her guests, like a sunbeam shedding 
light on all around,) feigned to be too occupied to 
stop, but suddenly, and playfully stooping, snatched a 


94 


AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF AN ACTRESS. 


kiss from the lips so temptingly approached to his, with 
all the enthusiasm a young lover might have infused in 
the act; nor was this little incident, or accident , rather, 
considered as an evidence of ill breeding, or made the 
subject of severe comment, as in any more form-loving 
land it inevitably would have been. 

“ After the hundred and one courses have wearily run 
their course , if the family live in the good old-fashioned 
style, richly-ornamented pipes, of a ludicrous length, are 
introduced, and generally not without making the better 
acquaintance of every gentleman present; who freely 
indulges in the luxury of sending forth fantastic wreaths 
of smoke to circle the fair one by his side, without the 
remotest fear of a distasteful frown deepening on her 
brow; and she, if fatigued, or preferring a more poetic 
garland, may soon disappear, almost unperceived, amid 
the clouds of smoke which darken the air, and refresh 
herself with the perfume of the carefully-tended garden, 
which is oftener sought than the boudoir or parlor. But, 
in general, the company rise together, and bowing to 
each other, or cordially grasping hands, conclude the 
ceremonies of the table by wishing the hearty Gesegnete 
Mahlzeit , £ May your meal be blessed to you,’ which a 
foreigner, who has witnessed the abundant and varied 
repast of which they were pressed to partake, may 
secretly imagine is needed to insure its digestion. After 
a promenade in the garden, the company reassemble in 
the parlor, and well may the politeness of an American 
lady be beguiled into the vulgarity of amazement, to see 
her German friends quietly seat themselves, and com¬ 
posedly draw forth their needlework, as though busily 
engaged beside their own little work tables at home. 
The more elderly knit, the young embroider, and the 


INDUSTRY OF GERMAN LADIES. 


95 


needle is plied to the merry music of their tongues, for 
their employment assists rather than precludes conver¬ 
sation. A German lady cannot conceive the possibility 
of passing an easy and pleasurable hour with her fingers 
unoccupied. To so great an extent does she carry this 
industrious mania, as to play Penelope even while re¬ 
ceiving morning visitors, who, if they come to pass a 
few hours, are prepared to follow her example. I heard 
the naive excuse of a young wife, who, being questioned 
on this subject by a foreigner, laughingly replied, ‘ We 
are weaving into substance again the smoke which our 
spendthrift husbands are puffing to the winds, lest their 
extravagance should ruin us. They waste, we save; so 
the balance is kept even.’ 

“The Germans are remarkably fond of the open air, 
and, after dinner, coffee is served, sometimes at small 
tables in the garden, which often faces the street, some¬ 
times in vine-covered bowers, in the graceful balcony, or 
even unsheltered on the open walk, when the house is 
pleasantly located on the ramparts, or in an open square, 
or in a wide street. The ladies, while sipping their coffee, 
do not relinquish their needles, taking a stitch ever and 
anon to refresh themselves with the comfortable assurance 
that they are not idle ; nor have the surrounding gentle¬ 
men parted with their pipes, which bear them affection¬ 
ate company, unobjected to by the ladies, for they all 
seem, with Halleck, to have discovered 
‘ The free 

And happy spirit that unseen reposes 

In the dim, shadowy clouds that hover o’er us, 

When smoking quietly,’ 

and to tolerate, even hail , that spirit’s presence. If the 
residence of the host be not distant from the public gar- 


96 


AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF AN ACTRESS. 


dens, they frequently are sought by the company to 
listen to the delightful band of music ordinarily stationed 
there. On returning to the house, tea is served, and the 
young people amuse themselves with games and dancing, 
the elderly continuing their employments ; a light sup¬ 
per is handed around, and the party breaks up, rarely 
earlier, and seldom later, than ten o’clock. 

“ On leaving the house, it is customary for each per¬ 
son to present the servant, stationed at the street door, 
with a piece of money, equal to five or six shillings; and 
this ‘ drink geld,’ as it is called, which is obtained in 
various ways from the guests of the master, is always 
carried to the mistress of the mansion, and kept by her 
until the end of the year, when it is distributed amongst 
all the domestics of the family, and often amounts to so 
considerable a sum that a servant, before making an 
engagement, regularly asks whether much company is 
received, that an estimate may be formed of the lucra¬ 
tiveness of the situation. 

“ The funeral obsequies of the Germans vary in their 
different cities, and are generally marked by some 
striking peculiarity. In Hamburg, full wigs, of long, 
curling, flaxen hair, are usually worn by the pall bearers 
and attendants at the funeral. In Bremen, where I had 
more frequent opportunity of witnessing the last cere¬ 
monies in honor of the dead, the coffin, exposed on an 
open hearse, is preceded by a long procession of hired 
attendants, clothed in the deepest mourning, wearing 
three-cornered hats and flowing cloaks, fastened from 
shoulder to shoulder, and followed by a train of friends 
and relatives, sometimes with bared heads, in respect to 
the departed. 

“ The instant death claims its earthly victim, an at- 


FUNERAL CUSTOMS. 


97 


tendant, in the above-mentioned costume, is despatched 
formally to announce the event to the connections, 
friends, and neighbors of the deceased. This custom 
has given rise to some ludicrous mistakes, when foreign¬ 
ers have been near residents of the house of mourning, 
as was evinced by a party of American gentlemen, who 
were disturbed in their evening conviviality by the sud¬ 
den appearance of one of these sable-clad messengers, 
begging to inform them, in the name of a wealthy and 
beautiful lady of the neighborhood, that she had just 
become a widow. The wondering strangers, having 
often in their promenades paid homage to the loveliness 
of the unknown lady, cordially thanked the messenger, 
crossed his palm with silver for his trouble, or for good 
luck’s sake, and bade him present their compliments to 
the afflicted lady; then congratulating themselves on 
the evidence of her preference, in thus speedily commu¬ 
nicating her situation, commenced calculating how soon 
they might pay her their consolatory devoirs, and decided 
that the civility should be acknowledged without delay ; 
but, happening to boast of their fortunate adventure to 
a friend somewhat more au fait to the customs of the 
country, the extraordinary meaning they had given to 
an ordinary form was, much to their disappointment, 
discovered. 

“ The body of the deceased, for many days after the 
spirit has been disinthralled, is watched with all the care 
and tenderness which were given to the couch of the 
living, and remains unconsigned to its parent earth until 
dissolution has rudely banished any hope of revival 
which lingered around the cherished clay. In Vienna, 
and several other cities of Germany, an elegant building, 
conveniently arranged, is especially devoted to the recep- 
7 


98 


AUTOIilOGHAPITY OF AN ACTRESS. 


tion of the dead; thither, on soft litters, they are gently 
removed, placed in a comfortable bed and heated cham¬ 
ber, (in winter,) with a bellrope attached to their hands, 
that, should animation return, assistance might be in¬ 
stantly summoned; and thus the mourners, clinging to 
a fragile hope, by long contemplation of their affliction, 
become familiarized with its presence before they yield 
to the reluctant conviction of its reality. Thus they 
rob the first bitter pangs of their poignancy, and, as 
Gelaleddin of the East, who, when his favorite slave 
expired in his arms, commanded her to be borne to her 
sumptuous couch, forbade her death to be mentioned, 
inquired daily after her health, and regularly ordered 
her meals to be prepared and served, — like him, they 
soothe their sorrow by blinding themselves a while to 
the certainty of its existence. 

“A churchyard is never, in Germany, as so often 
with us, the shunned and deserted spot, the mere neces¬ 
sary receptacle of lifeless flesh and crumbling bones, 
where nothing but the senseless marble and as cold and 
meaningless inscription, in the words of Korner, says, 
‘ Vergiss die treuen todten nicht.’ 

“ In the beautiful calm of a summer’s evening, or in 
the memory-wakening stillness of a moonlight night, let 
the traveller seek the silent shades that shroud the un¬ 
forgotten dead. Whom does he see kneeling, with fore¬ 
head bowed in prayer on the flower-strewn sod ? The 
wifeless father! His little ones cling to his side, their 
young hearts swelling as they hear of her who sleeps 
beneath, yet lives above; and they learn at the grave 
of that mother whose hand would have guided them to 
immortal happiness, the path by which they may rejoin 
her on high. Proceed a step farther. You will see a 


GERMAN CEMETERIES. 


99 


young widow bending over a, shattered column,* and 
with gentle hands training the ivy at its base to wind 
round that sculptured emblem, even as her thoughts 
and affections intwine the memory of the departed. 
Still on — a limner’s group of rosy children, check¬ 
ing their youthful merriment *in this sacred spot, 
are silently wreathing the tomb of their parents with 
fresh garlands, or planting new flowers amid the already 
blooming parterre which conceals, yet marks, their 
graves. If one form repose in that hallowed ground 
whose memory has ceased to dwell in the hearts of 
those who ‘ live to weep,’ your eye selects its resting- 
place at a glance — the straggling bushes of long-neg¬ 
lected flowers struggle with rank and choking weeds 
that overtop them — no wreath hangs, in graceful me¬ 
morial, over the costly monument, or hides the rude 
stone — the path around is grass-grown, and untrodden 
by the feet of memory and love. It is a desert spot, 
where beauty has withered as affection decayed. 

“ Schiller says truly, — 

‘ Die Klage sie wecket 
Die Todten nicht auf.’ 

And to mourn is indeed unavailing; but should forget¬ 
fulness be sought as the comforter of affliction, and con¬ 
solation be found alone in the Lethe which banishes the 
lost from our thoughts ? Death, which proves 

‘ Wnat dust we dote on when ’tis man we love,’ 

should rather be the test of how perfect and changeless 
is that affection which, cherishing the soul , not merely 

* A monument not unusual in the graveyards of Germany. 


100 


AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF AN ACTRESS. 


its mortal tenement, survives, with that death-defying 
spirit, forever.” 

In alluding to the habits and peculiarities of the Ger¬ 
mans, I cannot forbear to mention those with which I 
was most charmed — their betrothal and bridal ceremo¬ 
nies. These formed the subject of the following article, 
written from Germany, and published in one of the 
periodicals of the day : t— 

“BRIDAL CUSTOMS OF THE NORTHERN GERMANS. 

“ There still exists, even at this time, when imagina¬ 
tion has been dethroned by cheerless reality, and form 
and fashion have utterly banished romance from the 
circle of domestic happiness, a charm interwoven with 
the nuptial ceremonies of the Germans, which pre¬ 
serves the warm and social emotions of the heart in 
their primitive brightness and purity. 

“ When a young girl is once betrothed, were the 
Hindoo tali (whose bond death only can dissolve) 
around her neck, she could not feel herself more irrev¬ 
ocably joined to him whom her plighted faith has 
blessed. She is, therefore, moved by no calculating mo¬ 
tives for concealment. She is not coquette enough to 
court the attentions of other men, whom her unac¬ 
knowledged vows might mislead; and a faithless lover, 
a jilted lady, and a broken engagement, are phenomena 
in her land too rarely heard of to be dreaded. Thus 
she does not blush to proclaim to the world her 

‘ Pure, open, prosperous love, 

That, pledged on earth, and sealed above, 

Grows in the world’s approving eyes, 

In friendship’s smile, and home’s caress, 

Collecting all the heart’s sweet ties 
Into one knot of happiness.’ 


BRIDAL CUSTOMS OF THE GERMANS. 


101 


Her acquaintances are soon made partakers of her hap¬ 
piness. From this hour to that of her marriage she is 
called 1 bride,’ (resigning the name the instant she be¬ 
comes a wife,) and regarded as a being on whom every 
testimony of affection and every kindness of friendship 
are to be lavished. Her friends and connections select 
her as the queen of their fetes; and, at the dinner 
parties daily given in her honor, the seats of the bride 
and bridegroom grace the head of the festive board. 
Their plates are wreathed with garlands of natural 
flowers, and bouquets of the most exquisite buds and 
blossoms bloom in vases beside them. The first health 
proposed is the bride’s, often accompanied by a feeling 
and beautiful address to the happy pair. It is usual 
for the bridegroom to express his thanks in an answer. 

“ A week before the nuptials, the most intimate 
friend of the bride invites her young companions to a 
festival called ‘The Binding of the Myrtle Wreath.’ 
On this occasion no married person is admitted. 

“ The myrtle wreath, which is to mingle with the 
tresses of the bride at her nuptials, is woven by the 
hands of young maidens, and the gentlemen are ex¬ 
cluded from their presence until this ceremony is com¬ 
pleted ; the evening is then divided between dancing 
and amusing games. When the bridal morning arrives, 
bright-colored flags float gayly from the windows of the 
bridegroom’s friends and business acquaintances ; and a 
profusion of cadeaux, flowers, and poetry is showered 
in upon the bride. At the altar her brow is encircled 
by the myrtle wreath, whose binding she witnessed a 
few days previous — the emblem of that everlasting 
faith and constancy implanted in her heart. During 


102 


AUTOBIOGRAPHY OP AN ACTRESS. 


the evening there is always a sportive attempt to pluck 
the leaves from her garland, over which, to prevent 
these depredations, the bridegroom becomes guardian; 
and his hand alone, when her friends withdraw, removes 
the wreath from her brow. A serenade beneath their 
windows closes the ceremonies ; and though, 

* When the young bride goes from her father’s hall, 

She goes unto love yet untried and new, 

She parts from the love which hath still been true,’ 

she seldom, in that happy clime, parts to weep over 
changed affections and unrealized hopes. 

“Twenty-five years after the day of their union, 
should both parties be so fortunate as to reach together 
that advanced period, another festival celebrates the 
virtues of the wife, who again receives gifts, and tokens 
of affection, and congratulatory poems (some I have 
seen printed on satin) from her friends. Seated on a 
chair of state at an appointed hour, her two youngest 
children (if she have any) approach her, bearing a bas¬ 
ket heaped with newly-gathered flowers, among the 
leaves of which glitters a silver crown. Presenting 
their beautiful burden, they recite some verses, gener¬ 
ally composed by the elder children. Their father, who 
stands by her side, receives the crown and places it on 
the head of his wife, whose thoughts perhaps wander 
back to the eve when the myrtle wreath lay freshly 
there, and over the years that have since fled, which 
start up one by one before her, while she asks her heart 
if it has been as true and as fond as it vowed to be, or 
whether there is not yet some evidence of love unshown, 
some sacrifice of affection unoffered, by which she can 
add to the felicity of her husband and of his home. 


THE GOLDEN WEDDING. 


103 


u When half a century has rolled away, and the bride 
of fifty years ago has survived to be the beloved wife of 
half a hundred years of tried and unchanging affection, 
an event so extraordinary and so unfrequently wit¬ 
nessed is celebrated by the ( golden hochzeit,’ or golden 
wedding, at which a crown of gold is presented the rev¬ 
erend matron. A clergyman, addressing the aged pair, 
rehearses the blessings which have been granted to 
them in the long life they have spent together, and 
revives the emotions of their youth in the remembrance 
of its by-gone pleasures. 

“ By some these customs would be esteemed useless 
or absurd; but when we reflect that they cherish and 
keep fresh the kindliest feelings of the heart, constrain 
those who are honored by them to review their past 
lives and ask themselves whether the silver and the 
golden crown — the rewards of constancy and affection 
— have been fairly won, we may rather lament that 
these ceremonies should be confined to romantic Ger¬ 
many alone.” 

There are so few objects of very decided interest to a 
traveller in Bremen, that I must not pass over without 
mention the remarkable cathedral which it contains. 
I have forgotten the dimensions, as I took no notes of 
them at the time. The cathedral is immensely high, 
and resembles some temple of the Greek or Roman 
gods rather than any modern edifice. It is filled with 
gayly-colored pictures of Adam, Noah, Abraham, Jacob, 
Sarah, Rebecca, Esther, &c., &c., habited in somewhat 
theatrical costumes. The pulpit is in the centre of the 
church. The altar is at the west end, and appears not 
unlike a bower. It is composed of four columns, wound 
round with gilt flowers, festoons of which are gracefully 


258 


THE LIFE OF MADAME GUYON. 


tion of my departure. For, being united in God after 
a manner so pure, and so spiritual, death could not 
separate us, but, on the contrary, would have more 
closely united us. Father La Combe, who was on his 
knees at my bed-side, remarking the change of my 
countenance, and how my eyes faded, seemed ready to 
give me up, when God inspired him to lift up his 
hands, and with a strong voice, which was heard by all 
who were in my chamber, at that time almost full, to 
command death to relinquish its hold. Instantly it 
seemed to be stopped; and thus God was pleased won¬ 
derfully to raise me up again; yet for a long time I 
continued extremely weak, during all which our Lord 
still gave me new testimonies of his love. How many 
times was he pleased to make use of his servant to 
restore me to life, when I was almost on the very point 
of expiring! As they saw that my sickness and pain 
did not entirely end, they judged that the air of the 
lake on which the convent was situated, was very pre¬ 
judicial to my constitution. They concluded that it 
would be necessary for me to remove. 

During my indisposition, our Lord put it into the 
heart of Father La Combe to establish an hospital in 
this place for the poor people seized with maladies, 
and to institute also a committee or congregation of 
ladies, to furnish such as could not leave their families, 
to go to the hospital, with the means of subsistence 
during their illness, after the manner of France, there 
not having been yet any institution of this kind in that 
country. Willingly did I enter into it; and without 
any other fund than Providence, and some useless 
rooms which a gentleman of the town gave us, we began 
it. We dedicated it to the holy Child Jesus, and he 


THE LIFE OF MADAME GUY0N. 


259 


was pleased to give the first beds to it from the earnest- 
pence of my pension, which belong to him. He gave 
such a blessing thereto, that several other persons 
joined us in this charity. In a short time there were 
nearly twelve beds in it, and three persons of great piety 
gave themselves to this hospital to serve it, who, with¬ 
out any salary, consecrated themselves to the service of 
the poor patients. I supplied them with ointments and 
medicines, which were freely given to such of the poor 
people of the town as had need of them. These good 
ladies were so hearty in the cause, that, through their 
charity, and the care of the young women, this hospi¬ 
tal was very well maintained and served. These ladies 
joined together also in providing for the sick, who 
could not go to the hospital; and I gave them some 
little regulations such as I had observed when in 
France, which they continued to keep up with tender¬ 
ness and love. 

All these little things, which cost but little, and 
which owed all their success to the blessing which God 
gave them, drew upon us new persecutions. The 
Bishop of Geneva was offended with me more than 
ever, especially in seeing that these small matters ren¬ 
dered me beloved. He said, “I won over everybody.” 
He openly declared, “that he could not bear me in his 
diocese,” though I had done therein nothing but good, 
or rather God by me. He extended the persecution to 
those good religious women who had been my assist¬ 
ants. The prioress in particular had her own share to 
bear, though it did not last long; for as I was obliged, 
on account of the air, to remove, after having been 
there about two years and a half, they were then more 
in peace and quietness. On another side, my sister was 


106 


AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF AN ACTRESS. 


boys — now it is a grinding organ to which you are lis¬ 
tening, but it is managed with a skill to us unknown. 
The organ is surrounded by a troop of songstresses, the 
pathos of whose rich voices would impart a charm even 
to a less romantic accompaniment, could such be found. 

“We walk out together. The ramparts,the gardens, 
the public squares, the streets are all densely crowded. 
Ladies in their gayest attire, countrywomen in their 
gala costumes, happy boys filling the air with merry 
sounds from the castanets on their fingers, crowds of 
laughing children with wreaths of flowers on their 
heads, all are hastening to enjoy the universal holiday. 

“We pursue our way along the ramparts. See! 
there is a circus opened for these twelve days only. 
Near it an uncouth enclosure has suddenly sprung up, 
where rope dancers are terrifying , and therefore delight¬ 
ing , the gaping crowd. The road is lined with wander¬ 
ing minstrels, singing and playing for groats. At last 
we reach the great square and the market-place, where 
the fair is held. Here the throng is so dense that we 
must fight our way by means of divers gentle elbowings, 
quiet nudges, and pertinacious pushings, if we would 
pass at all. See the gayly-colored boats, and cars filled 
with enchanted boys aRd girls, swiftly wafted through 
the air ! Look at those’ little urchins bestriding flying 
ponies, that whirl round a miniature railway to the 
sound of music! Each youthful hero has a mimic 
sword in his outstretched hand, and strives to secure the 
golden ring which peeps forth from a small opening at 
the side of a pole. But no sooner is the prize borne in 
triumph away than the ring is magically replaced by 
another. 

“ The whole square is covered with booths, fancifully 


FREI MAKKT. 


107 


decorated, and fairy-looking houses, transported there in 
a night. These are filled with curiosities, exhibited by 
rosy-cheeked girls from the interior and south of Ger¬ 
many. Some of them are dressed in the picturesque 
Tyrolese costume ; the beauty of others is disguised by 
the frightful provincial garb of black, with fifty long, 
funeral ribbons hanging from their heads; some are in 
the Hollandish dress, with wide brass bands encircling 
their brow; but the larger portion wear the more simple 
bodice, turiic, striped petticoat, and clean white cap of 
Bremen. 

“All dwellings that face the square and market, 
whether private houses or hotels, are rented out for 
these twelve days to foreign venders, and rapid and 
singular is the transformation effected by the latter. 
No one knows his own home again. 

“ But let us not pass those wonder-relating peddlers 
without stopping. You see they carry about a series of 
pictures, pasted on boards — these they erect at each 
street corner. In a few moments a crowd assembles. 
Mute and statue-like stand the people, while in energetic 
language, and pointing to the groups of uncouth figures 
rudely delineated, this novel historian recounts how a 
spectre was seen in a haunted castle, where murder had 
been committed; and how a huge sword, that hung 
against the wall, dropped blood; and how the people 
fled, and the skeleton of a beautiful maiden was discov¬ 
ered, &c., &c., — all to the evident edification of his at¬ 
tentive listeners. Many of them are deeply moved at 
his sublime descriptions of the beauty of the lady, as 
plainly evinced by the skeleton , and the ferocity of her 
murderer, as attested by the blood-dropping sword. 
Sometimes, during the relation of these pathetic scenes, 


JOB 


AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF AN ACTRESS. 


solemn music is played; sometimes the tale of horror 
ends with a dirge to the memory of some unfortunate 
pair ; or, if the tale be a merry one, with a nuptial song 
in honor of a happy couple. But the comic relations 
have fewer listeners. A German crowd are more en¬ 
amoured of the terrible.” 

Twelve days, and the fair is over. In a single 
night, the booths, the fairy houses, the circus, flying 
boats, cars, horses disappear. Bremen wakes up the 
next morning from her festive dream, and is her sober, 
stately self again. 

After we had passed some weeks in Bremen, my 
sister and her husband prepared to continue their trav¬ 
els. We expected Mr. Mo watt to join us in a few 
months, and I preferred quietly awaiting him with my 
aunt. I was particularly desirous of studying the Ger¬ 
man language, and so excellent an opportunity might 
not again be presented. We found no difficulty in 
hiring a pretty furnished house, situated upon the delight¬ 
ful Ramparts. The hospitality of our neighbors soon 
made us feel domesticated. My aunt could not speak a 
word of German. I only understood a few sentences, 
and yet we commenced housekeeping with German 
domestics ; German venders to market with ; German 
tradespeople to deal with ; German friends to associate 
with, very few of whom understood English any better 
than we did German. I used to make purchases at the 
door with a dictionary in my hand. Our fruit and 
vegetable sellers, to whom I made signs requesting 
them to be patient while I hunted out the necessary 
words, stood with distended mouths, gazing at me in 
mute astonishment. I heard that a feminine dealer in 
vegetables, while speaking of me to a neighbor, put her 


GERMAN HOUSEKEEPING. 


109 


finger significantly on her forehead, and gave a doleful 
shake of the head, intimating that it was very doubtful 
whether all was right in that region. 

My aunt’s trials of this nature were even greater 
than my own. Many were the amusing dilemmas in 
which she was placed, owing to her ignorance of the 
language. One day she had gone to the cuisine to 
enact a series of pantomimic directions to the cook, 
while I was busy in my own room. By and by she 
called out to me, in great distress, — 

“ Good gracious, Anna, what is the German for a 
plate ? ” 

“ Teller,” I replied, leaning over the stair. 

“ Tell her what ? ” returned my aunt, not supposing 
that she had heard aright. 

“ Teller,” I answered back at the top of my voice. 

“ How can 1 tell her , unless you tell me what to tell 
her ? ” she retorted in a tone that betokened she was 
gradually becoming heated — and, indeed, the weather 
was sultry. 

“ Can’t you hear me tell you to tell her teller ? ” 

“ That’s just what I want to do; but how can I tell 
her , unless I know what to tell her ? ” 

I was laughing so heartily that I could only shout 
out, “ Tell her, teller.” But, fearing that my aunt 
might become exasperated, I ran down stairs, and for 
her edification uttered the magic word. Of course, the 
desired plate was produced, to her great amazement; 
but she good naturedly joined in my unrepressed merri¬ 
ment. 

After the long rest, — for I had hardly opened a book 
since I left America, — I returned to my studies with 
fresh eagerness. The clock seldom struck six when I 


110 


AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF AN ACTRESS. 


was not taking my morning walk on the Ramparts; or, 
with a bevy of children and their nursery maids, feeding 
swans that floated on the stream which divides the 
Ramparts and the counterscarp. 

At nine came my German teacher, a most accom¬ 
plished lady, and remained two hours. She was suc¬ 
ceeded by a music and singing master ; for I felt bound 
to return to my Sisyphus labor, and renew my battles 
with the unconquerable music lessons. 

Our German friends continued to overwhelm us with 
the warmest hospitality, and in a very short time I had 
sufficient command of the language to enjoy their society. 
Sometimes I took two German lessons in a day, instead 
of one, and exquisite was my enjoyment when the 
beauties of Goethe and Schiller gradually developed 
themselves to me. 

We had passed about three months in Bremen, when 
Mr. Mo watt unexpectedly arrived. We looked for him 
a fortnight later. He took all the kindest precautions 
to guard me against the excitement of a surprise ; but 
an annoying contretemps defeated his intentions. I was 
practising at the piano, when I heprd his step and the 
sound of his voice, and a second afterwards saw him 
enter the room. The startled sensation of joy with 
which I sprang from my seat, produced, for the first 
time, a hemorrhage of the throat or lungs. I was after¬ 
wards afflicted in the same manner, for several years, 
whenever I labored under violent excitement. It was 
some days before I rallied. My newly-gained health 
had received a severe shock. 

Mr. Mowatt proposed that we should visit the Rhine, 
make a tour through Switzerland, Italy, and France, 
and then return home. The preparations for our jour 


DEPARTURE FROM BREMEN. 


Ill 


ney were nearly completed, when he was suddenly at¬ 
tacked by a disease of the eye, which almost destroyed 
his sight. The utmost skill of the two most celebrated 
homoeopathists in Bremen did him no good. He passed 
four months in a darkened chamber, suffering the most 
excruciating agony, and deprived of all enjoyment, save 
that of being read to, or talked to, from morning until 
night. 

Thus, day after day, each wearier and sadder than 
the preceding, passed on, though his affliction was borne 
with an almost feminine patience. He seemed to rally 
periodically, and then sink into his former state. 
During one of these intervals, I persuaded him to 
attempt a journey to Paris, in the hope that he might 
obtain more efficient medical advice. Our preparations 
were rapidly made for fear of a relapse. It was De¬ 
cember ; the weather was intensely cold, the travelling 
worse than at any other period of the year ; yet we set 
out with Indian courage. The journey was accom¬ 
plished in, I think, three days. 


CHAPTER VI. 


Paris. — Unexpected Friends. — Visit to Hahnemann. — Mrs. Hahne¬ 
mann. — Her History. — New Physicians. — Recovery of Sight. — 

Parisian Gayeties. — Description of Ball at Colonel T - n's. — 

The Carnival. — General C - ss. — Rachel and her Sisters. — 

Facilities of Education in France. — American Copy of Parisian 
Mantiers. — Male and female Politicians. — Louis Philippe. — St. 
Germain Society. — Place de la Concorde. — Place Vendome. — 
Place du Carrousel. — Fountains. — Arc de Triomphe de VEtoile. — 
Tuileries. — Les Champs Ely sees. — Bois de Boulogne. — Studies 
resumed .— Play for private Representation commenced. — Scenery 
painted in Paris. — Sailing for America. 


Most sad was our entrance into that metropolis, where 
the heart of the great world is said to beat with its 
merriest pulsations. The strength of our invalid was 
completely exhausted, and scarcely had we reached 
Paris when he became dangerously ill. To have 
delivered the letters of mere fashionable introduction 
with which we were abundantly supplied, would at that 
moment have been a mockery. We should have been 
desolate indeed, had not friends sprung up around us in 
the kind relatives of a French brother-in-law. He was 
the husband of that sister who first won Mr. Mowatt’s 
admiration, and who has long since gone to the “ better 
land.” 

The mother and sisters of Mr. Gr ; -were women 

of high refinement and most lovable character. They 
at once devoted themselves to lightening our cares for 
the sick, and cheering us by their agreeable society. 

( 112 ) 



VISIT TO HAHNEMANN. 


113 


Mr. Mowatt, however, resisted all persuasions to 
place himself in the hands of their family physi¬ 
cian. His prejudices were in favor of homoeopathy. 
Hahnemann was then residing in Paris, and if the new 
science could yield balm for the invalid’s affliction, we 
might seek it at the fountain head. 

Hahnemann, at that period, had become too feeble to 
visit his patients. He received them at his own resi¬ 
dence. Mr. Mowatt being confined to his bed, the duty 
of calling upon the learned doctor, and of minutely 
describing the case, devolved upon me. 

It was scarcely nine o’clock when I entered Hahne¬ 
mann’s magnificent mansion : but his saloons were al¬ 
ready crowded, and one o’clock struck before I gained 
an audience. A valet, in gaudy livery, who had taken 
my card some four hours before, then approached, and 
informed me that I would now be received into the con¬ 
sultation chamber. I followed him through a succession 
of apartments, all richly furnished, and embellished 
with numberless busts of Hahnemann, of various sizes. 
A door was thrown open, and I entered the consultation 
room. 

At the head of a long table sat a lady, dressed in the 
most recherche demi-toilette, with a gold pen in her 
hand, and piles of books and papers strewed around 
her. She might have been forty years old; but I am 
no judge of ages. Her form was finely rounded, and 
her face still fresh and handsome. Her brow was 
remarkably high, and the hair, thrown back from her 
temples, fell in long, light curls upon her shoulders. 
Her complexion was brilliantly clear, and her blue eyes 
had a deeply-thoughtful expression. She rose to receive 
me, and it was not until she resumed her seat that a 
8 


114 


AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF AN ACTRESS. 


shrivelled, little, old man became visible. He was 
reclining in a sumptuous arm chair, with a black velvet 
skullcap on his head, and in his mouth a richly-en¬ 
amelled pipe, that reached almost to his knees. His 
face reminded me of a ruddy apple that had been 
withered by the frost; but the small, dark eyes, deeply 
set in his head, could scarcely have glittered with more 
brilliancy in his lusty youth. As I took the seat which 
Mrs. Hahnemann designated, he noticed me with a look 
rather than a bow, and removing the pipe from his 
mouth, deliberately sent a volume of smoke across the 
table — probably in token of greeting. 

Mrs. Hahnemann addressed me, and wrote down my 
answers to her numerous questions; but at the con¬ 
clusion of the interview declined prescribing, until the 
invalid made the effort to appear in person. Hahne¬ 
mann sat puffing away as though his existence depend¬ 
ed upon the amount of smoke with which he was sur¬ 
rounded, and apparently intent alone upon his pleas¬ 
ant occupation. But when I spoke of our long visit 
to Germany, he suddenly took the pipe from his mouth. 
“ Sprechen sie Deutsche ? ” were the first words he 
addressed to me. 

I had only to utter “ Ya wohl,” when a species of 
■Promethean fire seemed to shoot through the veins of 
the smoking automaton; he laid down his pipe, and 
commenced an animated conversation in his own lan¬ 
guage. 

He spoke of Germany and her institutions with en¬ 
thusiasm ; asked me many questions concerning Amer¬ 
ica, and expressed his admiration of the few Americans 
with whom he was acquainted. As soon as politeness 
permitted, I led back the subject to the point from 


MRS. HAHNEMANN. 


115 


which we had originally started — Mr. Mowatt’s illness 
in Germany. At the first medical question, the pipe 
returned to its former position, the expanded counte¬ 
nance shrivelled up again, the distended muscles re¬ 
laxed, the erect form sank back into a withered heap, 
and was quickly enveloped in smoke — he was the 
wearied-out old man again. Mrs. Hahnemann answered 
my question with much suavity, and then gracefully 
rose. This was her signal of dismission. I promised 
to return with the patient as soon as possible. She 
touched a silver bell, the door was thrown open, and 
the liveried valet escorted me to my carriage. 

I afterwards heard the history of Mrs. Hahnemann. 
She had been cured by her husband of a disease which 
other physicians pronounced necessarily fatal. Through 
gratitude, she bestowed her hand upon the man who had 
saved her life. Her husband taught her the science of 
medicine. She made rapid progress, and he soon pro¬ 
nounced his wife as skilful a physician as himself. When 
he became infirm, his practice was left almost entirely 
in her hands. 

A few days after the first visit, I returned, accom¬ 
panied by Mr. Mowatt. Again we had to wait several 
hours in the antechambers ; and, when admitted, the 
interview was unsatisfactory. After but a short trial 
of the medicines prescribed, his sufferings were so in¬ 
tense that homoeopathy was abandoned, and Madame 

G-’s family physician called in. Four months 

passed on and brought no relief. But succor came at 
last from the hands of an eminent American surgeon, 

Dr. M-tt, of New York. One fortnight from the 

day when he first undertook the case, Mr. Mowatt was 
able to exchange his darkened chamber for our lightly- 




116 


AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF AN ACTRESS. 


curtained drawing room. What a day of joy was that 
on which he took his first walk with unbandaged eyes 
upon the Champs Elys^es ! What a moment of happi¬ 
ness when, looking over my shoulder at the volume I 
was reading aloud, he discovered that, for the first time 
for many months, his eyes could distinguish print ! 

With a keener sense of enjoyment than I had ever 
yet experienced, I now mingled with the gay world, and 
became thoroughly fascinated with Parisian society. A 
portion of every morning was spent in visiting antique 
palaces, galleries of paintings, and various curiosities ; 
and in the evening we often attended two or three balls 
on the same night. We also frequented the theatre, 
opera, concerts, as often as our social engagements 
would permit. Mr. Mowatt seldom ventured to trust 
his eyes to the blaze of ball-room chandeliers, but in¬ 
sisted upon my aunt and myself accepting every agree¬ 
able invitation. He used to say that he derived more 
amusement from listening to our humorous descriptions 
than he could have derived from being present. The 
constant habit of repeating for his diversion every thing 
we had seen and heard, soon rendered us quite accom¬ 
plished raconteurs . 

I insert the following description of a fancy ball, 

given by the American millionaire, Colonel T-n, 

which was declared to be the most charming of the 
many we attended. The account was written by me at 
the time for the Ladies’ Companion: — 

“ Of all the magnificent entertainments which Paris 
has this season witnessed, the bal costume , given at the 

residence of Colonel T-n, on the second night of the 

carnival, for splendor and concentrated variety of amuse¬ 
ments, bears away the palm. 




BAL COSTUME. 


117 


“ Long before the palace-like mansion of Colonel 
T-n could be reached, the interminable line of equi¬ 

pages, with their coronets and coats of arms, the liveried 
coachmen in front, and fancifully-dressed chasseurs be¬ 
hind, announced what guests would grace his entertain¬ 
ment. On approaching the hotel, some fifty gendarmes, 
well mounted, guarded the brilliantly-illumined and 
spacious court yard, while the canopied porch and whole 
front of the mansion were thronged by the attendant 
domestics of the visitors. Alighting, you are received 
by some twenty footmen, and ushered into an antecham¬ 
ber, the centre of which is occupied by the at present 
fashionable ornament, a handsome billiard table. Pass¬ 
ing through this apartment, you are loudly announced 
at the door of the reception room, where stands the 
ever-graceful and affable hostess, whose very smile 
makes welcome, and whose courteous greeting sheds 
ease on all around. 

“ Twelve gorgeous saloons were thrown open. Where 
the uncouth door once had been, costly drapery was sus¬ 
pended, tastefully gathered in folds or festoons ; the car¬ 
pets of velvet, the divans, ottomans, and couches were all 
that could be imagined of luxurious and beautiful. The 
walls were fluted with gold or rich silks, and hung with 
the works of the first masters; the ceilings painted in a 
thousand devices. One apartment raised above the 
others overlooked the ball room, and was lined with a 
row of draperied arches, from which the dancers were 
viewed to the greatest advantage, their light forms 
reflected in the bright mirrors opposite, which covered 
one entire side of the dancing apartment. The thou¬ 
sand lights shed a flood of brilliancy which would almost 
have eclipsed sunshine; and the sparkling of diamonds 



118 


AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF AN ACTRESS. 


and many-colored gems threw a lustre around almost 
dazzling. 

“And the varied, the charming, the voluptuously 
beautiful costumes ! When Fashion, whose rigorous 
sway clothes the hunchback and the sylph in the same 
garb, forsook her throne, what taste, what art, were ex¬ 
pended to set forth every grace, and show Beauty robed 
in all her charms, heightened by adornments which only 
displayed what they seemed intended to conceal! There 
were sultans and sultanas, queens and courtiers, knights 
Templar and ladies in tournament robes; the goddess 
of night, wrapped in her glittering silver stars, and the 
crescent on her fair brow, one bed of diamonds ; naiads 
and nymphs of the woods, Anna Boleyn, and Madame 
Pompadour. Even Joan of Arc herself forsook the 
rude field to enjoy the soft pleasures of these princely 
halls. There were costumes of every clime, ‘ of every 
land where woman smiles or sighs.’ 

“ It would have employed the eyes of Argus to have 
scanned them all. Soon as the midnight hour arrived, 
the swell of music stole upon the ear from the exquisite 
band of fifty musicians, and a general rush was made to 
the ball room, until then unopened. A large circle 
drawn in the centre of the apartment was the magic 
boundary not to be passed; but the throng around it 
was inconceivably dense until the sound of horses’ feet 
was heard; then all with one accord drew back as four 
fairy steeds, mounted by Cinderella postilions, drawing a 
Queen Mab chariot of crimson velvet, with golden wheels, 
flew twice around the ring. A pair of lovely shepherd¬ 
esses, placing their flower-wreathed crooks upon the 
ground, sprang lightly from the chariot, and, as the car 
and its outriders disappeared, moved gracefully round in 


BAL COSTIME. 


119 


a fanciful pas de deux , amidst the noisy plaudits of 
admiring spectators. The guests elevated themselves 
on sofas and couches, sometimes three or four crowding 
together on the small and delicately-shaped chairs, at 
the imminent risk of losing their balance ; while a host 
of crushed unfortunates on tiptoe behind, clinging to 
those raised by chance (as so often happens in the 
world) above them, made extremely perilous the position 
of both parties; thus adding much to the excitement, and, 
. according to the rule that Pleasure is enriched by sharing 
with her sister Pain, to the enjoyment, of the scene. 

“ The pretty shepherdesses, after finishing their 
graceful evolutions, were put to flight by the entrance 
of some fifteen or twenty Turks, knights, and Highland¬ 
ers on horseback, who, after going through a ludicrous 
contre danse, galloped noiselessly away amidst peals of 
merriment, which must have drowned the trampling of 
their horses’ feet; for, strange to say, none was heard. 
Then entered Madame Pompadour, Louis XV. and 
his court, with their powdered wigs and magnificent jew¬ 
elled robes. They performed with much spirit the old- 
fashioned dances of their age, amongst which the stately 
courtesying minuet called forth the most unbounded ap¬ 
plause. It were in vain to attempt a description of the 
series of dances in character which followed; each and all 
were executed with mingled taste and skill, and at their 
close the giddy waltz and gay quadrille were merrily 
joined in by the company in general; and brigands flew 
round, encircling their fair captives ; Christians, unmo¬ 
lested, stole the pride of the Turkish harems; and shep¬ 
herdesses looked happy with lords. 

“ When dancing had tired the unwilling feet of many 


120 


AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF AN ACTRESS. 


an enraptured fair one, the droll queries of a strolling 
manager, and pertinently stupid answers of his clown, 
forming a set enigmas or charades, gratefully varied the 
diversions. A handsome supper table, filled with con¬ 
fectionery, was accessible the whole evening; and a 
little past midnight the rich curtains which concealed 
a spacious apartment were thrown back, disclosing the 
most sumptuous banqueting board, spread with every 
delicacy that could gratify the palate or satisfy the ap¬ 
petite ; heavy with the service of gold, bright with the 
dazzling radiancy of costly candelabras, and the mellow 
light of moonlight lamps, which lined the gilded walls, 
rich with such ornaments as the genius of Paris alone 
could execute. The table itself was so spacious and 
long, that, reflected in the large mirror at its foot, the 
eye refused to reach its farther end. When graced on 
either side by ‘ fair women,’ who seemed to have been 
gathered from every land, lovely relics of every age, 
relieved by the background of ‘ brave men,’ like the set¬ 
ting to jewels, what more splendid sight could be im¬ 
agined ? 

“ The morning had far advanced before the courteous 
host and hostess found their banquet halls deserted. It 
proved-, indeed, — 

‘ No sleep till morn, when youth and pleasure meet 
To chase the glowing hours with flying feet.’ 

But a gayer festival, with more agremens and less 
alloy to the general enjoyment, may seldom again be 
witnessed. 

“ The cost of this ball is currently estimated at eight 
thousand dollars. One lady present wore so many dia- 


THE CARNIVAL. 


121 


monds (said to be valued at two hundred thousand dol¬ 
lars) that she was escorted in her carriage by gen¬ 
darmes, for fear of robbery.” 

Colonel T-’s fancy ball was given on the second 

day of the carnival. The celebration of the Parisian 
carnival does not, of course, approach that of the Ital¬ 
ian, yet it is worthy of some mention. For three days 
Paris empties its populace into the streets, and every 
willing head wears Folly’s cap and bells. The carni¬ 
val procession consists of a cavalcade followed by 
infantry in the uniform of their respective lands. 
Amongst these the Chinese are the most singular. 
Then comes the hceuf gras , an immense ox , fattened 
to almost the size of an elephant, led by three butchers. 
Two of them are dressed as Romans, crowned with 
laurel, and bear glittering axes. The third is costumed 
as an Indian chief. All three of them look as though 
they had successfully tried upon themselves the ex¬ 
periment to which their contented-looking victim is 
indebted for its enormous proportions and present dis¬ 
tinction. The horns of the ox are gilded and wreathed 
with flowers, and its huge sides caparisoned with a 
golden cloth wrought with fanciful devices. Following 
the bceuf gras , a car of white and gold is drawn by four 
white horses, with wreaths of flowers about their necks, 
and on their backs saddlecloths of silver and gold 
The car is filled with young girls, youths, and lovely 
children in the garb of pagan deities. Old Time, with 
an infant in his arms, drives the horses. As the car 
passed our door, a rosy Cupid was playfully aiming sil¬ 
ver arrows at his youthful, half-nude mother, Venus; 
Apollo was lying at the feet of one of the Muses. Pan 
entertained another with his rustic pipe. Vulcan was 



122 AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF AN ACTRESS. 

busily preparing an iron net to entrap the lover of his 
wife, and Mars was laying his helmet and shield at the 
feet of Venus. A rich canopy suspended over the car 
shielded the mythological group from sun or rain. The 
procession ends with a heterogeneous mass of carriages, 
w r agons, and market carts, all filled with masqueraders, 
dressed according to their eccentric fancies. The bceuf 
gras pays a visit to the king and certain of the minis¬ 
ters, and then to the stall of the butcher to whom he 
owes his honors. The stall is hung with tricolored rib¬ 
bons and flowers. In front of it the procession halts, 
and the health of the butcher is drunk in champagne, 
and responded to with cheers. 

While this ceremony is taking place, a bountiful 
supply of cakes is flung into the streets, and noisy 
urchins scramble for their possession. From early 
morning until late at night the Boulevards and all the 
public streets are thronged with masqueraders, who de¬ 
light the crowd with ludicrous feats, and sometimes 
enact comic characters with great esprit. The domi¬ 
noes are generally supplied with bags of flour, from 
which they pelt indiscriminately every passer by; but 
when a carriage graced by ladies gtops the way, bon¬ 
bons and bouquets are showered at the windows. The 
masquerade balls commence at twelve o’clock, and, 
though attended by the aristocratic portion of the com¬ 
munity as well as by the middle classes, they are too 
often the scenes of intrigue and boisterous mirth, though 
never of open indecorum. 

During our stay in Paris, General C—ss was the 
residing American minister; and he and his agreeable 
family were alike popular with the French, the English, 
and their own countrymen. Their entertainments were 


RACHEL. 


123 


strikingly informal and unostentatious, and therefore all 
the more delightful. We could not but enjoy the 
touches of republicanism which were now and then 
intermingled with aristocratic usages. The attractions 
must have been great elsewhere that ever induced us to 
forego our ambassador’s receptions or balls. 

Through constant mingling in Parisian society, we 
became acquainted with various distinguished persons, 
whose characters and peculiarities I should take delight 
in sketching; but I only feel at liberty to mention those 
who are in some way connected with my own history. 

My history at this period was simply that of every¬ 
day fashionable life, and the interchange of civilities 
alone threw us in contact with those who had won fame 
and honors from a fastidious public. 

I saw Rachel in her principal characters, and I retain 
the most vivid recollections of her thrilling impersona¬ 
tions. There was something terrific, something over¬ 
whelming, in them all. From the moment she came 
upon the stage, I was always under the influence of a 
spell. Her eyes had the power of a basilisk’s upon me, 
and flashed with an intense brightness which no basi¬ 
lisk’s could have rivalled. I never expect to see that 
acting equalled — to surpass it, in impassioned force 
and grandeur, appears to me impossible. 

Accident made me acquainted with the two young 
sisters of Rachel. They were then at school, and were 
receiving a liberal education at the expense of their 
elder sister. They spoke of her with enthusiastic 
affection, and evidently looked forward to becoming her 
successors upon the stage — the legitimate inheritors of 
her genius. 

So many incidents have occurred since our seven 


124 


AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF AN ACTRESS. 


months’ visit to Paris, that various events of deeper 
interest have nearly obliterated my first impressions of 
the gay metropolis — of its thousand works of art and 
of science, and of its beautiful environs, Versailles, 
St. Cloud, &c. I do not therefore attempt to imbody 
them in the form of a description. The following ex¬ 
tract from a letter addressed to a younger sister, during 
the early part of our sojourn in Paris, may not be with¬ 
out interest to youthful readers : — 

“ What surprises me most in Paris is, that, with its 
innumerable luxuries, it lacks, the air of comfort which 
characterizes England. It is difficult to get accustomed 
to the atmosphere of inconsistency which pervades 
every thing. Wealth and poverty, mirth and misery, 
seem to walk hand in hand. Paris reminds me of a 
fine woman magnificently attired, with soiled gloves, 
rent stockings, and worn-out shoes. There is always a 
striking incongruity in the accessories of Parisian mag¬ 
nificence. 

“ Napoleon, more than any other monarch, adorned 
and enriched this city. He planned and executed — 
finished what had been begun, and altered what was 
badly done. He did not confine himself to the erection 
of public buildings, to making roads and raising monu¬ 
ments, but he cultivated the arts and sciences, and fos¬ 
tered the genius of his countrymen. The facilities for 
acquiring knowledge and receiving a thorough educa¬ 
tion can nowhere be greater than in this metropolis. 
Public lectures on all subjects are daily delivered free 
of cost, and liberal instruction is bestowed on those who 
would devote themselves to the fine arts. The Maison 
Roy ale St. Denis is devoted to the education of the sis¬ 
ters, daughters, and nieces of the members of the 


AMERICAN COPY OF PARISIAN MANNERS. 125 


Legion of Honor; and hundreds of young girls yearly 
receive a classical education at the expense of the gov¬ 
ernment. Their discipline is said to be particularly 
gentle. They wear a uniform of black. 

u Poverty is not here considered to be so nearly a 
crime as it is with us and in England. Talents, edu¬ 
cation, manners, even personal attractions , are placed 
before riches. Admission into good society may be 
commanded by these , while with us the entrance is too 
often purchasable. 

“ The customs and fashions which we imitate as Pa¬ 
risian are not unfrequently mere caricatures of those 
that exist in Paris. For instance, it is the present 
mode not to introduce persons who meet at parties or in 
visiting, but the custom is intended to obviate the cere¬ 
moniousness of formal introductions. Every one is 
expected to talk to his neighbor; and if mutual pleas¬ 
ure be received from the intercourse, an acquaintance is 
formed. The same fashion in vogue with us renders 
society cold and stiff’. We abolish introductions because 
the Parisians do so; but we only take this first step in 
our transatlantic imitations. Few persons feel at liberty 
to address strangers. Little, contracted circles of friends 
herd in clannish groups together, and mar the true ob¬ 
ject of society. As yet, we only follow the fashions; 
we do not conceive the spirit which dictated them. 

“ So in our mode of dressing. Expensive materials, 
worn here only at balls, are imported by American mer¬ 
chants and pronounced to be 4 very fashionable in Paris.’ 
They are universally bought by our belles, who, instead 
of wearing them at proper seasons, parade the streets 
in what is meant exclusively for evening costume. 

“ Ar e we not as yet merely a nation of experiment- 


126 


AUTOBIOGRAPHY OP AN ACTRESS. 


ers ? Houses are built in a few weeks, to fall in a few 
more; fortunes are made in a day, to be lost in another. 
We are like children working their samplers, who 
make hundreds of mistakes, and destroy their work 
many times before they can perform it aright. 

“ You have always heard and read that the French 
nation were noted for their suavity of manners, gayety 
of heart, and extreme politeness. But since the turbu¬ 
lent bouleversements that have agitated France, and 
especially since the last revolution, this spirit, it is said, 
has changed. The men, in particular, are not so gay 
as they were, because their pursuit is not now so en¬ 
tirely that of pleasure. They ponder public contin¬ 
gencies more deeply, and France is not happy. All — 
both men and women — are politicians, and maintain 
their ground with a firmness which leads to long dis¬ 
cussions. Both parties become easily excited, and court¬ 
liness of speech and manner are too often forgotten. 

“ The king, Louis Philippe, is not beloved. So fearful 
is he of another attempt upon his life, that he is scarcely 
ever seen in public. Paris is divided by the River 
Seine. On one side is the palace of the Tuileries, 
where the king resides. On the opposite side dwell the 
proud scions of the noble families of France. This 
society, called the St. Germain, is much more select, 
and far more difficult of access, than the court itself. 
In the circles of the St. Germain, the old style of ad¬ 
dress and ancient ceremonies of the splendid age of 
Louis XIV. are adhered to and revered. 

“ It strikes a stranger in Paris that half the city is 
composed of magnificent shops. The private dwellings 
are above them. Every family hires a floor, and this 
manner of living is considered perfectly respectable — 


PLACE LOUIS QUINZE. 


127 


even fashionable. I was amused with the fanciful 
titles given to these magazines — such as Aux Pauvres 
Pi able s, A la Balayeuse , A la Pensee , A la jeune 
Anglaise , &c. 

“ Les Passages, with which the city abounds, are the 
most pleasant places where one can shop on foot. The 
houses are built over long arches, beneath which runs 
a sheltered promenade, lined on both sides with bou¬ 
tiques. These promenades are called 'passages. They 
are more or less splendid, according to the quarter ot‘ 
the city in which they are situated. 

“ Of all the beautiful squares with whiqli the city is 
adorned, the first and most magnificent is the Place de 
la Concorde, or Place Louis Quinze, as it is generally 
called. Many terrible catastrophes have rendered this 
spot famous; amongst them the execution of Louis 
XVI., and hundreds of other unfortunates known 
to fame and history. From every side of this place 
there is a charming view. Standing in the centre, you 
behold two majestic buildings, with an arcade walk 
running in front of them, formed of Corinthian columns ; 
and in the distance appears the chaste and lovely Church 
of la Madeleine. To the east are the Champs Elysees, 
and between the noble avenues of trees rises the tri¬ 
umphal arch of Napoleon, called L’Arc de Triomphe 
de TEtoile. On the west is the garden of the Tui- 
leries, and on the south may be seen the Chamber of 
Deputies ; also a line of costly edifices running along 
the banks of the Seine, and, peering above them, the 
dome of the Invalides. In the centre of the square is 
the obelisk of Luxor, which stood before the temple of 
Thebes, and was introduced by the French government 
from Egypt. It is an immense pyramid-like column, 


128 


AUTOBIOGRAPHY ON AN ACTRESS. 


slightly broken at the top, and covered with hiero¬ 
glyphics. It took eight hundred men three months to 
remove it from its former station. To accomplish this, 
a road to the Nile had to be made, and numbers of 
Arab dwellings, which intercepted its path, or were 
built against its base, had to be levelled to the ground. 
On either side of this venerable monument are two in¬ 
genious fountains, not quite completed. The square is 
filled with statues, and in the evening brilliantly illu¬ 
minated by a quantity of gilded lamps raised on fluted 
columns of glittering fretwork. 

“The Place Vendome is another celebrated square, 
in the centre of which shoots up a triumphal pillar, 
erected by Napoleon in honor of his German cam¬ 
paign of 1805. It is built in imitation of Trajan’s Pillar 
at Home, and is said to have been formed of the cannon 
taken by Napoleon in battle. On the pedestal are re¬ 
presented in bas relief the victories of Napoleon, and 
on the top stands a statue of the great emperor. A 
winding staircase leads to the terrace above the column, 
which, being one hundred and thirty feet high, com¬ 
mands a fine view of the city. The ascent is totally 
dark, and each visitor carries a lantern, presented to 
him by one of Napoleon’s veteran soldiers, who guards 
the entrance. 

“ The Place du Carrousel is named after a great tour¬ 
nament held there in the golden age of Louis XIV. 
It was here also that the infernal machine exploded in 
1800. 

“ I was particularly charmed with the fountains, 
which are scattered all over Paris, and supply the city 
with water. They play at certain hours of the day, 
and the water is caught in buckets and barrels, and 


FOUNTAINS. 


129 


sold by the poor to the rich. The Fontaine de Leda rep¬ 
resents Jupiter in the shape of a swan approaching the 
pleased and astonished Leda. The water flows from 
the beak of the swan. The Fountain of Mars repre¬ 
sents the Goddess of Health holding a draught of water 
to the lips of a dying soldier, who revives as he drinks. 
The fountain in the Place du Chatelet is a circular 
basin, from the centre of which springs a palm tree, en¬ 
circled by statues representing Justice, Strength, Pru¬ 
dence, and Vigilance. On the shaft of the column are 
inscribed the names of Napoleon’s conquests. The 
water issues from cornucopiae, which terminate in 
fishes’ heads. Above are heads representing the 
winds; in the midst is a globe, supported by a gilded 
statue of Victory. I have mentioned those of the foun¬ 
tains which particularly struck me; there are many 
others of equal beauty. 

“I must not pass over without mention what we 
took delight in passing under a few days ago — the 
Arc de Triomphe de l’Etoile, a vast central arch, 
ninety feet in height, graced by piers on either side sup¬ 
porting an entablature and attic. Upon a pedestal from 
each of these piers rise groups of allegorical figures. 
On the internal sides of the piers are inscribed the titles 
of victories won by France. The arch is pierced by a 
transversal arch, engraven with the names of great 
warriors. This arch was commenced by Napoleon, and 
finished by Louis Philippe. Within the monument, a 
staircase in each pier leads to three stories of apart¬ 
ments, as yet unappropriated to any use. After the 
nuptials of the Emperor with Marie Louise, the arch 
not being completed, an immense model in wood and 
canvas was erected, decorated, and illuminated. The 
9 


130 


AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF AN ACTRESS. 


emperor, entering Paris, drove through in triumph with 
his bride. 

“ Paris is surrounded by barrieres , to prevent the in¬ 
troduction of contraband goods. Some of them are 
very splendid edifices, resembling in form the Arc de 
l’Etoile — also called Barriere de l’Etoile. But these 
will scarcely interest you. 

“ The garden of the Tuileries, with its vast groves, 
its charming flower gardens, its fountains, its groups of 
statues lining every walk, you must often have heard 
described. I will but mention the classic groups before 
which we most frequently pause. One is composed of 
the chaste Lucretia, supported by her horror-stricken 
husband. Her young children are clinging to her robe, 
while she, with expiring breath, recounts her wrongs, 
and draws the dagger from her bleeding breast. My 
other favorite is Atalanta flying before Hippomenes — 
he flings the golden gifts of Yenus at her feet to retard 
her flight, and wins the goal and the coy nymph for 
his own. 

“ With the Champs Elysees I was somewhat disap¬ 
pointed. To be sure, there are vast avenues of noble 
trees, which form pleasant and sheltered promenades; 
but the old women with their cake and apple stands, 
and the old men with one arm (supposed to be ampu¬ 
tated) hidden in their coats, and a large black patch 
over one eye, and the numerous little terrestrial-look¬ 
ing cafes, remind one that this Elysium is but of the 
earth. 

“ The Bois de Boulogne, the famous rendezvous for 
duellists, is a large forest, always gay with splendid 
equipages and richly-dressed promenaders, and is the 
most fasionable drive in Paris.” 


A DRAMA COMMENCED. 


131 


In spite of the gay life which we led in the French 
metropolis, my habits of study were not wholly aban¬ 
doned. An Italian teacher paid me visits every morn¬ 
ing, and the previous night’s dissipations never pre¬ 
vented my taking a lesson before breakfast. Nor did I 
cease to find pleasure in writing. I commenced a little 
drama in six acts, (the peculiarities of the plot made five, 
as I thought, an impossible number,) designed for pri¬ 
vate representation. We were to give a fete on our 
return to America, and the play was to be enacted at 
Melrose by my sisters and myself. It was written in 
blank verse, (or, at least, what I imagined to be blank 
verse,) the scenery was painted by Parisian artists 
under my direction, and some of the principal dresses, 
which were exceedingly rich, were made by Parisian 
costumers. The play was entitled Gulzara, or the Per¬ 
sian Slave. It was nearly completed when we left 
Paris. 

At Havre we took passage in the ship Ville de Lyons, 
under the command of Captain Stoddart, and sailed for 
America. 


CHAPTER VII. 


A Play without Heroes. — Rehearsals. — Incident in the Barn. — 
Gulzara, or the Persian Slave. — Publication of Play. — Cri¬ 
tique from New World. — Fondness for Speculations. — Loss 
of Property and utter Ruin. — Musings in the Arbor. — My Sister 
Charlotte. — A Project. — Preparations for a new Career. — The 
last Farewell to a beloved Home. 

Our sojourn in a foreign land had not rendered 
America less dear. Our own home never looked to me 
more beautiful than when, as I leaned from the carriage 
window, I beheld it through the long avenue of trees, 
after our fifteen months’ absence. I pass over the joy¬ 
ous greetings of kindred and friends, and come to the 
fete which was to celebrate our return. The play was 
rapidly completed ; but I had had some formidable diffi¬ 
culties to overcome in its construction. We objected to 
admit gentlemen into our corps dramatique , — to say 
the least, thfeir presence was an inconvenience , — yet 
our youthful company wished to avoid assuming male 
attire. I must write them a play without heroes. To 
suit these caprices I invented a plot, the scene of which 
was laid within the walls of a harem. Sultan Suliman, 
the hero, is absent in the wars, and though he in reality 
plays an important part in the drama, and is kept con¬ 
stantly in the minds of the audience, he never appears. 
His newly-purchased slave Gulzara is the heroine. 
The other characters are his daughter Zulieka, 
Fatima, her companion, Katinka, an attendant, and 

( 132 ) 


INCIDENT IN THE BARN. 


133 


Ayesha, the villain of the piece , who has received a 
great wrong at the hands of the sultan, and, during 
his absence, seeks revenge. The only male character 
is that of the sultan’s son Amurath, a boy ten years 
old. This character was written for little Julia, and I 
expended all the ability I possessed in making the part 
one that would afford ample scope for the display of her 
brilliant talents. It was a part in which she could 
fairly compete with Gulzara, (which I enacted,) and, 
as the sequel proved, could bear away the palm. 

To facilitate rehearsals, our little corps dramatique 
were invited to take up their residence with me for a 
month previous to the representation of the play. Many 
an amusing incident broke in upon our preparations. 
During the rehearsal of certain scenes, we were inva¬ 
riably interrupted by sudden fits of laughter from the 
actors, and I could never get them through other scenes 
(one in particular) without allowing them to pause and 
weep ; and these were not stage tears, but genuine out¬ 
bursts of girlish feeling. 

Screaming musically and fainting gracefully, we at 
first pronounced impossible accomplishments — heights 
of histrionic excellence not to be reached! To avoid 
alarming the rest of the family, we practised these por¬ 
tions of our art in an old barn at a distance from the 
house. Each one in turn would give a long, loud 
shriek, and the clearest sound was to be imitated by the 
character who had to scream. Then the fainting must 
be practised. We could fall upon beds of hay, but 
dared not trust ourselves to sink into each other’s arms, 
for fear of a fall indeed. Amid shouts of laughter, we 
were one day making experiments in the most effective 
manner of becoming insensible, when an unexpected 


134 


AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF AN ACTRESS. 


peal of merriment, mingling with ours, sounded above 
our heads ! We looked up and beheld in the haylofts 
an assemblage of laborers, who had been enjoying un¬ 
perceived our dramatic exercises, and could no longer 
restrain their mirth. With one accord our whole party 
took flight, and were seen in the barn no more. 

It was my desire that the fete should be given upon 
our father’s birthday; but as Flatbush was four miles 
from New York, we were obliged to wait for moonlight 
nights, that our guests might not have a country drive 
in the dark. 

Our Parisian scenery worked admirably. It was 
changed for each act. The most critical observer could 
hardly have found fault with the miniature theatre. 
We had all the appurtenances of the stage, even to 
footlights, and the regulations I instituted were tolerably 
systematic. I seemed to possess some intuitive knowl¬ 
edge of the mysteries of stage management. The night 
before that on which the play was to take place we had 
a dress rehearsal, and every one was, in stage parlance, 
“ dead-letter perfect ” in her part. 

The fete day came. With the assistance of my 
young dramatic company, the house was profusely 
decorated with garlands of flowers. Bowers were 
formed out of forest trees cut down for the purpose, 
and vases, placed in every possible and impossible niche 
or corner, were filled with the plunder of the green¬ 
house and garden. Numerous friends contributed 
largely to this floral exhibition. When we commenced 
our labors in the morning, several tables were literally 
heaped with mountains of flowers. At night the avenue 
of trees leading to the house was brilliantly illuminated, 
and the moon we had politely waited for, in return, 


GULZARA. 


135 


courteously lent us her light. The guests assembled at 
an early hour, and were received by their host. The 
hostess was busied transforming herself into a Persian 
slave, and adorning the other inhabitants of the se¬ 
raglio. 

At the hour designated in the programme, which had 
been enclosed in every invitation, an overture was 
played by a full band of music stationed in the hall. 
(We had to alter the usual locality of the orchestra.) 
The curtain rose upon a chamber in the harem, where 
sat Zulieka, embroidering, and Fatima at her feet. It 
seemed to me five minutes, though probably it was not 
more than one, before our Zulieka (my sister May) 
could gain courage to utter the first words of her part. 
When at fast she spoke, it was in a low and trembling 
voice, scarcely audible. I held my breath until the 
sound fell on my ears, and drew it again with a sensa¬ 
tion of inexpressible relief as her self-possession gradu¬ 
ally returned. There was no laughing as at our 
rehearsals ; and, when the actors persisted in crying, 
the audience kindly kept them company, and I did not 
chide as on former occasions. Every one played be¬ 
yond my expectations, but the gem of the evening was 
the exquisite performance of little Julia as the sultan’s 
son Amurath. Almost every sentence she uttered 
drew down genuine bursts of applause ; and with the 
skill of a thorough artist, she made us laugh or weep at 
will while she retained her own composure. I exerted 
myself to the utmost in scenes where we played together, 
but my judgment told me that Amurath threw Gulzara 
into the shade. 

As I stood upon the stage, the audience were so near 
us that I could see my father’s noble form, his majestic 


136 


AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF AN ACTRESS. 


forehead, and snow-white hair. I could see his eyes fixed 
intently upon his children, in turn, and more than once my 
heart beat high as I saw him smile and bow with a flat¬ 
tered expression as some of our guests leaned forward to 
whisper their comments in his ears. Whenever Julia 
spoke, his face lighted up with an expression of almost 
rapture ; and when I had impassioned lines to deliver, 
he would gaze at me thoughtfully, drinking in each 
word, as though he were weighing my power against 
hers. 

The play lasted about two hours and a half, and then 
came to a happy termination. No untoward accident 
marred the smoothness of the representation. The 
scenery was rapidly removed, the theatre converted 
into a reception room, the ball room thrown open, and, 
in less than half an hour from the time when the cur¬ 
tain fell, the occupants of Sultan Suliman’s seraglio 
were merrily threading the dance, without a trace of 
their late sorrows visible upon their countenances. 

The play was afterwards published in the New 
World. Several very complimentary criticisms ap¬ 
peared, but as they were written by parties present at 
the performance, I must attribute them to the couleur-de - 
rose medium through which friendship is apt to look. 
There was one, however, written by the editor of the 
New World, which I quote as the most gratifying to me 
at the time, inasmuch as the writer was unacquainted 
with me, and, as I flattered myself, could have no bias 
inconsistent with critical impartiality : — 

“ The drama of Gulzara, or the Persian Slave, was 
written by a young lady lovely and accomplished. 
There is a unity and simplicity in its design and execu¬ 
tion which cannot fail to give sincere pleasure. It is 


A CHANGE. 


137 


pervaded by rare and delicate thought; many passages 
are strikingly beautiful; and the impartial critic will 
think, with us, that the drama would do credit to a much 
more experienced writer.” 

The ball I have just described was the last ever 
given at Melrose. The glorious sunset that closed on 
the days of our happiness ushered in but storms with 
the morrow. 

From the time of our return to America, Mr. 
Mowatt was forced to abandon his profession, on ac¬ 
count of the affection in his eyes. He could neither 
use them to read nor to write except for a few minutes 
at a time. He always had a fondness for speculations 
in land, stocks, &c., which, in the absence of other em¬ 
ployment, grew into a fatal passion. He made great 
ventures, sometimes reaping large profits, sometimes 
meeting with heavy losses. Of these speculations I at 
first knew little or nothing, but I could not help noticing 
the fitful changes that came over his mental horizon. 

At times he suffered from deep depression not natural 
to his temperament, while at other times he was elated 
to a degree that equally astonished me. In one of 
those crises which convulse the whole mercantile world, 
(I use the language which I heard him use to Mary 
Howitt,) he was utterly ruined. Almost the whole of 
his fortune was swept away in a few days. At first he 
concealed from me the serious nature of his losses, and 
it was long before I divined their extent. But our ex¬ 
penses must be retrenched — our mode of living altered 
— our country home, to which I was so devotedly 
attached, must be sold! 

This intelligence was communicated to me in the most 
gentle manner. As soon as I could recover from the 


138 


AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF AN ACTRESS. 


first bewildering shock, my earnest question to Mr. 
Mowatt was, “ Is there no possible means of saving this 
house? ” 

“ None that I can imagine,” was his dejected answer. 

“ How long may we remain here ? ” 

“ A month perhaps — certainly not longer.” 

“ And where shall we go ? ” 

“ Heaven knows ! ” 

I had never before heard the sound of despair in his 
tones. 

Misfortune sprinkles ashes on the head of the man, 
but falls like dew upon the heart of the woman, and 
brings forth germs of strength of which she herself had 
no conscious possession. 

That afternoon I walked alone for a long time in the 
lovely arbor that had been erected for my pleasure. It 
was a magnificent day in autumn. The grapes were 
hanging in luxuriant purple clusters above my head. 
The setting sun could scarcely penetrate their leafy 
canopy of darkest, richest green. They seemed to 
typify abundance, peace, prosperity ! Eve’s “ Must 
I leave thee, paradise ? ” found its echo in my innermost 
heart. I sat down in my favorite summer house, and 
strange thoughts came into my head. At first they 
were vague and wild, but out of the chaos gradually 
grew distinctness and order. I thought of my eldest sister 
Charlotte. Her gift was for miniature painting. When 
the rude storms of adversity had shipwrecked her hus¬ 
band, she had braved the opposition of her friends, of 
the world, and converted what had been a mere accom¬ 
plishment into the means of support for herself and her 
children. In the Academy of Drawing at Paris she had 
been awarded a high prize amid hundreds of native 


MUSINGS IN THE ARBOR. 


139 


competitors, although her name was unknown. Toiling 
ever, but ever with a cheerful spirit, she had gone on 
her pilgrimage rejoicing — overcoming trials with pa¬ 
tient endurance, and reaping a priceless reward in the 
midst of many struggles. 

Were there no gracious gifts within my nature? 
Had I no talents I could use ? Had a life made up of 
delightful associations and poetic enjoyments unfitted 
me for exertion ? No — there was something strong 
within me that cried out, It had not! What, then, 
could I do to preserve our home ? I had talents for 
acting — I could go upon the stage ; but that thought 
only entered my mind to be instantly rejected. The 
idea of becoming a professional actress was revolt¬ 
ing. 

The elder Vandenhoff had just given a successful 
course of readings in New York. I had been present 
on several evenings. His hall was crowded, and his 
audiences were highly gratified. I could give public 
readings. I had often read before large assemblages of 
friends — that required not a little courage. With a 
high object in view, I should gain enough additional 
courage to read before strangers. True, I could not 
judge what actual powers I possessed, what amount of 
talent; but the praises to which I had listened could not 
all be -mere flattery. I would not allow my thoughts to 
dwell for a moment on the possibility of failure. While 
I still sat in the little summer house, a bold resolution 
was suddenly formed. I reflected that 

“ Not fortune’s slave is man; our state 
Enjoins, while firm resolves await 
On wishes just and wise, 

That strenuous action follow both.” 


140 


AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF AN ACTRESS. 


I would read in public. I had long enough been the 
child of indulgence, ease, and pleasure. I would 

“ Wake up, and be doing, 

Life’s heroic ends pursuing.” 

It was almost dark when my dreamings ended, and I 
returned to the house. 

There were deep shadows upon the faces of Mr. 
Mowatt and my sister May, (who was still the beloved 
companion of our home,) as we three sat down to the 
tea table ; but I was more than usually merry, and now 
and then succeeded in calling a smile to the lips of one 
or the other. Several times Mr. Mowatt looked at me 
in astonishment. It was for my sake far more than for 
his own that he lamented his reverses. He feared pri¬ 
vations for me — not for himself. He valued his wealth 
because it had ministered to my comforts, surrounded 
me with luxuries, and fostered my tastes. His own en¬ 
joyments were of a simple nature. I answered his 
wondering glances with mysterious looks, and waited 
impatiently until my young sister retired. Then I told 
him of my musings in the arbor -— of my hopes — of 
my convictions — of — could I but gain his consent — 
my fixed determination! His surprise was at first too 
great for him to offer any opposition. I made good use 
of this vantage ground gained, and overwhelmed him 
with arguments, until my confident spirit had so 
thoroughly infused itself o his, that he suggested but 
one objection — the delicacy of my health. I combated 
that by declaring, and with truth, that I felt an inner 
strength hitherto unknown. I was sure that strength 
would sustain me under all emergencies. 

Midnight found us still discussing my new project; 


PREPARATION FOR PUBLIC APPEARANCE. 141 


but before I rose to retire, I had gained his consent. 
My slumbers were as peaceful that night as at the close 
of the calmest and happiest of the many happy days 
that had seen me sink to repose beneath that beloved 
roof. 

Once determined upon my course, I lost no time in 
carrying my intentions into execution. The very next 
morning I made selections from favorite poets, — many 
of them the same that I had heard Vandenhoff read, — 
and commenced strengthening my voice by reading 
aloud for a couple of hours each day in the open air. 
I allowed myself one fortnight to make all necessary 
preparations for my new and hazardous career. 

1 shrank from appearing in New York in the midst 
of my own extensive circle of relatives and friends. I 
did not desire the support which they might have 
yielded through personal sympathy. My powers could 
only be justly tested among strangers. Boston had 
been pronounced the most intellectual city of the Union 
— the American Athens. There is always more le¬ 
niency towards the efforts of a novice where there is true 
taste. I would make my first appearance in Boston. 
A literary friend, to whom Mr. Mowatt confided our 
intentions, furnished us with valuable letters of intro¬ 
duction. Their influence, while it could not insure my 
success, would command for me a favorable hearing. 

Every day I practised my voice, reciting aloud for 
hours in the vine-covered arbor, where I had cast aside 
the dark mantle of despair, and put on the life-giving 
robes of hope. I was greatly encouraged to find how 
rapidly every tone was strengthened, with what increas¬ 
ing enthusiasm I read, and how a confidence in my own 
success sprang up at these auguries. 


142 


AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF AN ACTRESS. 


It was a most trying duty to make my intended 
debut known to my family. My sister May was, of 
course, the first in whom I confided. She was of a 
gentle and timid nature, and shrank in alarm from the 
proposed public step. She could not discuss it without 
tears and violent emotion. 

“You cannot go through with it—I am sure you 
cannot! ” were her weeping exclamations. 

“We none know what we can do until we are tried,” 
was the truism with which I answered her objection. 

“What will our friends say of you if you make a 
public appearance ? ” she urged. 

“ What will our friends do for us in case I do not ? 
Will they preserve to us this sweet home ? Will they 
support us ? Will they even sympathize with our ad¬ 
versity ? ” 

“ But you will lose your position in society.” 

“ If I fail, probably I shall; but I do not intend to 
fail. And what is that position in society worth when 
we are no longer able to feast and entertain ? How 
many of those whom we feasted and entertained at our 
last ball will seek us out when we live in poverty and 
obscurity ? ” 

“ If you would only look at all the obstacles! ” 

“ No, I am looking above and beyond them, and I 
only see duty in their place.” 

Young as my sister was, she saw the force of my 
arguments, and sorrowed in silence. 

The sight of her anguish affected me so much that I 
had not courage to seek my father and make the neces¬ 
sary communication to him. His opposition, should he 
oppose my wishes, would inevitably paralyze my 
strength. I wrote to him, and entreated that he would 


FAREWELL TO A BELOVED HOME. 


143 


not dishearten me — not throw a clog upon my efforts 
by his disapproval. This letter was not to be delivered 
until the day when we started for Boston. 

That day soon came. About an hour before the 
time when it was necessary for us to leave, I went into 
my sister’s room, and found her greatly agitated. 
“ Come, May, let us bid good by to the dear, old place, 
and pray that we may soon return and be as happy as 
ever.” 

She put her arms about me, and we walked into the 
garden. For the last time we gathered flowers from 
our favorite plants — plants many of which we had 
ourselves put in earth and helped to tend. From the 
garden we went to the greenhouse. Near the door was 
a heliotrope, some two feet high, which had grown from 
a sprig that had been taken by Mr. Mo watt'from my 
hair. It was covered with deliciously-fragrant blossoms, 
and from them we added to our bouquets. Then we 
walked through the arbor to the summer house, and sat 
there for a few sweet minutes; then strolled to the 
orchards beyond, into the lane that ran by the grounds. 
Then we went to the stables and caressed our ponies, 
especially Queen Mab, and bade farewell to our dogs 
and our many pets. Through every room of the house 
we passed, and with lingering looks of love we bade 
-ach adieu. My sister was weeping, but I could not 
thed a tear. I had been full of hope until this moment 
out now a solemn sensation came over me and whispered 
ffiis farewell was our last — for I should never enter 
mat house again as its mistress! I never did. 

We were standing in the old-fashioned room where 
our little play hiu. been performed, and talking over the 


144 


AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF AN ACTRESS. 


pleasures of that eventful night, when the carriage 
came to the door. Hurriedly we took our seats. 

“ Take care of the flowers,” was the parting injunc¬ 
tion to our faithful French gardener, who, with a sad 
face, stood waiting to bid us adieu. “ Que le bon Dieu 
vous benisse ! ” was his fervent reply, and the carriage 
drove rapidly away. 

We left my sister, with the letter she had to deliver, 
at our father’s door; and, without waiting to see any 
of the family, drove to the boat which started for 
Boston. 


CHAPTER VIII. 


Boston .— Mrs. B - s. — A Ball-room, Acquaintance converted into 

a stanch Friend. — Boston Friendships. — Morning at the Tem¬ 
ple. — Heartsickness. — The old Doorkeeper's Encouragement. — 
My Father's Letter. — Inherited Traits. — First Appearance in 
public. — Sensations. — A Jirst Success. — Second and third Read¬ 
ings. — Lenient Critics. — Reading in Providence. — The Missing 
Ship. — Readings in New York. — Falling away of old Friends .— 
Reading at Rutger's Institute for Young Ladies. — Readings at 
Society Library. — Illness. — Article in Ladies' Companion. — 
Mrs. Osgood's Poem. — Imitators. — Offer of Park Theatre. — 
Letter from Professor Hows. 

As I look back, I can scarcely believe it possible that 
in Boston, where now I am bound by so many close, 
strong ties of friendship, I had then but one acquaint¬ 
ance — an acquaintance casually formed in the ball 

rooms of Paris. Mrs. B-s called upon me as soon 

as my arrival in Boston was published. I had known 
her merely as a woman of fashion, chasing the butterfly 
pleasure, even as I was doing, in Parisian salons. But 
now that I had a more earnest, a higher pursuit, — 

“All 

Her falser self slipped from her like a robe,” — 

and she came to me in her true guise. It was the 
woman of soul that greeted me, full of tender sympa¬ 
thies and eager interest — lamenting our misfortunes, 
and ready to act the part of a devoted friend. She en¬ 
couraged me in my undertaking— enlisted in my behalf 
the good wishes of her large circle of acquaintances — 

IQ (145) 



146 


AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF AN ACTRESS. 


brought a number of them to introduce to me — and 
exerted herself to the utmost to insure a crowded audi¬ 
ence to my first reading. She herself took one hundred 
tickets. I was strengthened and cheered by her untir¬ 
ing kindness; her hearty enthusiasm gave me new faith 
in my own success. Beyond price, at that moment, 
was su jh a friend; and the impetus which she gave to 
my first efforts had their effect upon my whole career. 

Our letters of introduction brought us into communi¬ 
cation with many delightful and some distinguished per¬ 
sons. Their interest in my novel undertaking was easily 
awakened, and their inspiring influence hemmed, me 
around until I seemed to stand within a magic circle, 
guarded, as by a charm, from all inharmonious exist¬ 
ences. The friendships formed at that period have been 
among the most enduring and most valued of my life. 

We had only spent a couple of days in Boston when 
all the arrangements for my first appearance were satis¬ 
factorily completed. I was to read at the Masonic r* 
Temple for three successive nights. The evening of 
my debut was announced, and courteous editorial 
notices, bespeaking a fair hearing, appeared in all the 
principal papers. ’ ■ 

The day before that on which I was to make my 
debut I visited the temple, and with a throbbing heart 
ascended the rostrum which I was to occupy during the 
readings. I tried my voice, to learn whether it had 
compass enough to fill the capacious hall. Mr. Mowatt 
and an old doorkeeper (who treated me in the most 
paternal and encouraging manner) were my only 
auditors. Yet it was with difficulty that I could speak 
in so singular a situation. The words came gaspingly 
forth, and I seemed to have lost all variety of intona- 


MORNING AT THE TEMPLE. 


147 


tion. I grew sick at heart. If my courage evaporated 
before an imaginary audience, how could I hope for 
presence of mind to carry me through the duties I had 
imposed upon myself when I stood in the presence of an 
actual crowd ? I made effort after effort to recite, but ' 
my voice was choked — I could scarcely utter a word; 
I sat down upon the steps of the rostrum, oven helmed 
with doubts and fears, which rushed like freshets over 
my heart, and swept away all its bright fabrics. I could 
not weep, — I was too miserable for tears, — and I 
could not listen to consolation. 

“ You’re only a bit nervous,” said the old doorkeeper, 
comfortingly; “ you’ll get over that. I’ve seen great 
speakers look just as pale and frightened as you do now 
when they got on this stand here — but they soon 
warmed up ; and there’s nothing to be afraid of.” 

Still I would not be consoled. I could only remember 
that, if I failed, disgrace was added to our other ruin. 
The monster, Self-mistrust, had entered my mind, and 
was rapidly rooting up all its new and giant growths. 

We returned to the hotel. Cards, kind notes, and 
bouquets were awaiting me. One note was from Judge 
Story, written in the most encourari,ng ^ain; another 
from the poet Longfellow, apologizing for not calling, 
on the plea of illness. I was dispiritedly putting them 
aside when a letter was handed me. It was from my 
father. I had scarcely courage to break the seal. If 
his disapprobation were added to my present dejection, 
my failure was certain. The first words reassured me 
— my father had pondered well upon the course I pro¬ 
posed to pursue, and he gave my efforts not merely his 
sanction, but his heartiest approval. He bade me never 
lose sight of the motive I had in view ; and, with its 


148 


AUTOBIOGRAPHY OP AN ACTRESS. 


help, my talents (as he was pleased to call them) would 
enable me to achieve a triumph. He gave me his own 
blessing, and assured me that, as far as I was actuated by 
a sense of duty, I should win the blessing of Heaven also. 

An indomitable energy and perseverance had char¬ 
acterized all the actions of my father’s life. I inherited 
these traits from him, and with them a faculty for happi¬ 
ness that struck out the slender vein of gold in the dros¬ 
siest earth of circumstance. As I read his letter, my 
whole nature was quickened by an influx, as it were, 
from his strong, never-weary, and ever-buoyant spirit. 
All my hopes returned, and from that moment my 
courage never wavered. 

The sun shone brightly upon the morning of my 
debut . The heavens seemed to smile benignantly upon 
my undertaking. That nothing might disturb my com¬ 
posure, I refused to receive visitors, and passed the day 
quietly in my own chamber. 

Evening found me calm and strong of heart. I en¬ 
tered the carriage that bore me to the temple, not 
more agitated to outward appearance than if I had been 
hastening to a ball. 

I had resisted all entreaties to wear any rich attire, 
and was dressed in simple white muslin, a white rose 
in my bosom, and another in my hair. I wore no orna¬ 
ments. 

In the retiring room of the temple we found several 
gentlemen, the warmest among our new friends, await¬ 
ing us. A painful anxiety was depicted in their faces. 
Well might they have wondered at the almost stony 
calmness of mine. They told me that the temple was 
crowded with one of the most fashionable audiences ever 
assembled within its walls. They entreated me to re- 


FIRST APPEARANCE. 


149 


tain my self-possession, and poured into my ears words 
of sympathy and encouragement, which, in the abstrac¬ 
tion of that moment, I scarcely heard. 

They remained with us until the clock struck half 
past seven, the hour at which I was announced to ap¬ 
pear. “ Do not keep the audience waiting. Bostonians 

dislike nothing more ! ” said Mr. F-s, as he shook 

my hand, and, accompanied by the other gentlemen, left 
the room to take his seat in the temple. 

Two minutes more, and I was within view of the 
audience. Mr. Mowatt led me to the foot of the ros¬ 
trum, but I ascended the steps alone. I remember 
courtesying slightly, half stunned by the repeated rounds 
of applause, the blaze of light, the dense crowd of faces 
all turned towards me. I sat down by the table that 
held my books, and mechanically opened the one from 
which I was to read. I rose with it in my hand. 
Again came the bursts of applause — the hall swam 
and then grew dark before me — I could not see the 
book that I held open in my hand — my veins were 
filled with ice — I seemed to myself transformed into a 
statue. Although I still stood, I could not, for a few 
seconds, have been more unconscious in a state of com¬ 
plete inanition. 

The opening piece I had selected was the introduc¬ 
tion to Scott’s Lay of the Last Minstrel, and the first 
words I had to utter were,— 

“ The way was long, the wind was cold.” 

i could deliver the line feelingly, indeed, for I was 
shivering violently, and weary and long seemed the way 
I had just entered. 

At length, in an uncertain voice, I commenced to 



150 


AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF AN ACTRESS. 


read. Long before 1 had half finished the poem, my 
self-possession returned — a genial warmth displaced 
the icy chill, my voice grew loud and clear, and I found 
it easy to divest myself of all consciousness of the audi¬ 
ence. I began also to become accustomed to the ap¬ 
plause which at first oppressed and frightened me. I 
went through the various selections in order, and with¬ 
out betraying any further emotion. 

When half the entertainment was over, there was an 
intermission of ten minutes, and I was at liberty to 
withdraw into the retiring room. There I was greeted 
by a host of friends, all loud in their congratulations, 

and a note from my faithful ally, Mrs. B-s, told me 

of the delight of her party, and assured me of my per¬ 
fect success. 

With renewed spirit I reascended the rostrum, and 
read the concluding poems with as much ease as I should 
have done to a select party of friends in my own draw¬ 
ing room. 

At the hotel a fresh assemblage awaited me. I was 
overwhelmed with new congratulations and prophecies 
of a brilliant career — a career that would accomplish 
all that I had so much at heart. My deep joy trans¬ 
ported me to the grape-hung bower. I stood there in 
thought, exclaiming, “ Our home is secured ; I am mis¬ 
tress here still! ” 

It was past midnight before our visitors took their 
leave and allowed me to retire. When I was once 
more alone, when my full heart could offer up its 
grateful thanks, I could weep again. What woman 
does not know the delicious relief of tears — the ter¬ 
rible privation when the eyes remain burning and, un¬ 
moistened through suffering and trial ? They were the 



BRIGHT ANTICIPATIONS. 


151 


first tears I had shed since the day when I was told of 
the complete wreck of our fortunes. The future now 
seemed so bright before me, that, in my ignorance of 
the world, I anticipated no difficulties, no drawbacks, no 
rebuffs. I saw but roses in the pathway of life’s jour¬ 
ney. I had yet to learn that sharp-edged flints are scat¬ 
tered on the road, to lacerate the feet of those who 
walk not in the trodden ways. 

The next night I read again to an equally large and 
enthusiastic audience — and again on the third night to 
the same crowd, and was greeted with the same unmis¬ 
takable tokens of approval. I was no longer in the 
slightest degree embarrassed. I felt as though I were 
reading to an audience of indulgent friends, who were 
determined to be pleased with my most imperfect efforts. 
So, in fact, they were. A spirit of chivalry towards a 
countrywoman evidently existed among the gentlemen. 

Mr. W-e’s characteristic remark on the subject was, 

“ There is not a man in the temple that wouldn’t fight 
for you! ” 

The critics dealt with me tenderly, as with a spoiled 
child whom Boston had suddenly adopted and was de¬ 
termined to protect. The papers teemed with notices ; 
but they were eulogiums, not critiques. By common 
consent, it seemed to be decided that I was to be exempt 
from criticism. 

I was warmly pressed to remain and give a second 
course of readings; but I was now anxious to return to 
New York. We took our departure from Boston with 
a promise of speedy return. 

In passing through Providence, I read one night to 
a crowded audience. During the recitation of the Miss¬ 
ing Ship, written for me by Epes Sargent, and descrip- 



152 


AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF AN ACTRESS. 


tive of the loss of the steamship President, a lady 
present was so deeply moved that she was carried from 
the hall in violent hysterics. This poem proved one of 
the most valuable in my repertoire , for it never failed to 
impress an audience. The Light of the Lighthouse, by 
the same author, (which I afterwards frequently read 
in public,) was equally effective in the recitation. I 
made my selections as often as possible from American 
poets. 

From Providence we went to New York, and a 
course of readings for four nights was announced to 
take place at the Stuyvesant Institute. Curiosity drew 
me full audiences; but I did not feel as though Sym¬ 
pathy sat side by side with Curiosity, as she had done 
in Boston. I found it more difficult to read impres¬ 
sively than I had done before my indulgent New Eng¬ 
land audiences. The sphere seemed different, the 
recipients less impressible. I could not feel the same 
easy abandon — the utter freedom from constraint. I 
had too many personal friends constantly present, and I 
thought too much of what the Mrs. Grundies were 
saying. 

My father’s delight and pride, warmly and openly ex¬ 
pressed, compensated me for the sufferings inflicted by 
others — sufferings for which I was wholly unprepared. 
Some beloved relatives, and some who had been my 
nearest, dearest friends, — friends from my early child¬ 
hood, who were associated in my mind with all the 
sweetest, happiest hours of my life, — now turned from 
me. They were shocked at my temerity in appearing 
before the public. They even affected not to believe in 
Mr. Mowatt’s total loss of means. They tacitly pro¬ 
scribed me from the circle of their acquaintance. When 


FALLING AWAY OF OLD FRIENDS. 


153 


we passed in the street, instead of the outstretched 
hand and loving greeting to which I had ever been ac¬ 
customed, I met the cold eye and averted face that 
shunned recognition. 

I may now revert without bitterness to this sad era in 
my life; for time, circumstances, and (to speak the 
whole truth) a succession of brilliant successes have 
now reunited the bright and once broken links. All 
those whom I truly prized, in the course of years, 
allowed their affection and kinder judgment to over¬ 
come worldly prejudices. They generously gave me 
back the place I once held in their hearts. Nor had I 
the right to complain because I was for a season misun¬ 
derstood. They but followed their convictions, as I 
mine. My love for them had never varied, and 

** If I had angered any among them, my own life was sore; 

If I fell from their presence, I clung to their memory more; 

Their tender I often felt holy, their bitter I sometimes called 
sweet; 

And whenever their heart has refused me, 1 fell down straight 
at their feet! ” 

Under the heavy pressure of mental suffering, added 
to the exhaustion produced by unusual exertions, my 
health gave way. After fulfilling the course at the 
Stuyvesant Institute, I became seriously ill, and was 
forced to make several postponements of the time an¬ 
nounced for my reading before the Rutger’s Institute for 
Young Ladies. When I was scarcely convalescent, I 
read there one night. The hall was filled with an 
assemblage of lovely-looking young girls, and their evi¬ 
dent enjoyment inspired me to read with more energy 
and feeling than I had done since my nights in Boston. 
The effort cost me a relapse of some weeks. Again I 


154 AUTOBIOGRAPHY OP AN ACTRESS. 

i 

rallied, and gave a course of four nights’ readings at 
the Society Library. I met with the same success as 
before, but my strength was overtaxed. The continued 
coldness of some of my dearest friends preyed upon my 
mind, and threw me into a state of morbid nervous ex¬ 
citement. I was attacked with fever and hemorrhages 
of the lungs. For several months I was considered by 

my physician, Dr. C-g, in a state which rendered 

recovery very improbable. 

I had not been treated by the New York press with 
the same courteous leniency as by that of Boston. 
Some of the leading papers were warm in their enco¬ 
miums — others contained most just criticisms, point¬ 
ing out faults of style of which I was myself gradually 
becoming conscious. Others condemned in toto the bold 
and novel step I had taken, ignoring its motive. 

One article appeared in the Ladies’ Companion, writ¬ 
ten by a lady contributor of high literary standing, 
severely denouncing my course, and suggesting that, if 
public readings must be given, I should read before an 
audience entirely of my own sex! It was a rather 
comical idea that the gentlemen were to be left at the 
door with the canes and umbrellas ; and yet the lady 
who wrote this singularly one r sided article is a gifted 
and estimable person. 

But if one woman of literary standing wrote thus, 
another of true genius and well-deserved fame poured 
the balm of her poetic spirit into the wound. The 
lamented Mrs. Frances Sargent Osgood, after attend¬ 
ing one of the readings, addressed to me the following 
poem, the genuine expression of her truly womanly 
nature: — 



POEM BY MRS. P. S. OSGOOD. 


155 


TO ANNA CORA MOWATT, 

( On hearing her read.) 

BY FRANCES S. OSGOOD. 

Ne’er heed them, Cora, dear, 

The carping few, who say 
Thou leavest woman’s holier sphere 
For light and vain display. 

’Tis false as thou art true ! 

They need but look on thee, 

But watch thy young cheek’s varying hue, 
A purer hope to see. 

I too, Cora, sooth to say, 

When first I heard thy name, 

In fancy saw a being bold, 

Who braved the wide world’s blame. 

1 took my seat among 
The crowd, in thoughtless glee, 

To list the gifted poet's song, 

With little heed for thee ! 

But suddenly a sound, 

A murmur of surprise, 

And fresh delight ran deepening round: 

I coldly raised my eyes ; — 

A being young and fair, 

In purest white arrayed, 

With timid grace tripped down the stair, 
Half eager, half afraid! 

As on the misty height 
Soft blushes young Aurora, 

She dawned upon our dazzled sight, 

Our graceful, modest Cora ! 

The loveliest hair of gold 
That ever woman braided, 


156 


AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF AN ACTRESS. 


In glossy ringlets, richly rolled, 

Brow, neck, and bosom shaded. 

No jewel lit the tress, 

No ornament she wore, 

But, robed as simply as a child, 

She won our worship more. 

The glowing gold and gems 
Of Fashion’s proud attire 
Were nothing to her cheeks’ soft bloom 
And her eyes’ azure fire ! 

Forth from those pure blue eyes, 

As from a starry portal, 

A soul looked out and spoke to ours, 
With beauty more than mortal. 

But even applause was hushed, 

When, from her lips of love, 

That voice of wondrous music gushed, 
Now soft as murmuring dove — 

Now calm in proud disdain — 

Now wild with joyous power — 
Indignant now — as pleasure, pain, 

Or anger rule the hour. 

High in the listener’s soul, 

In tune, each passion swells; 

We weep, we smile, ’neath her control, 
As ’neath a fairy’s spells. 

0, while such power is thine 
To elevate, subdue, 

Believe thy mission half divine, 

Nor heed the carping few! 

And, Cora ! falter not, 

Though critics cold may say 
Thou leavest woman’s holier lot 
For vain and light display. 


OFFER OF PARK THEATRE. 


157 


My success gave rise to a host of lady imitators, one 
of whom announced “ Readings and Recitations in the 
Style of Mrs. Mowatt.” I was rather curious to .get an 
idea of my own style, and, had my health permitted, 
would have gone some distance to have seen it illus¬ 
trated. At one time there were no less than six adver¬ 
tisements in the papers, of ladies giving readings in 
different parts of the Union. 

My first course of readings in New York was acci¬ 
dentally attended by one of the managers of the Park 
Theatre, who, through a friend, made me a highly lucra¬ 
tive proposal if I would appear upon the stage. I well 
remember the indignant reply I gave the gentleman 
who communicated to me this offer. The recollection 
of that answer has often rendered me forbearing towards 
those whom I have since heard violently denounce the 
stage, and who were as ignorant as I was at that period 
of every thing that related to a theatre. 

Amongst the testimonials of interest which were 
called forth by my readings, one of those which I most 
highly appreciated was a complimentary letter from 
Professor Hows — perhaps one of the most finished 
elocutionists of the day. My personal acquaintance with 
that gentleman did not commence until a later period. 


CHAPTER IX 


Mesmerism. — The Phenomenon of Double Consciousness. — Som¬ 
nambulic Incidents. — Townshend. — Miss Martineau’s Misuse of 
Mesmeric Facts. — First Acquaintance with the Writings of 
Swedenborg. — Influence of New Church Doctrines. — Joining the 
Church. — Four Sisters also becoming Members.—Writings of my 
eldest Sister. — Letter on Mesmeric Somnambulism. — Revisiting 
former Residence. — Lenox. — The Sedgwicks. — Friendships 
with School Girls. — Getting # up of Miss Sedgwick's Play. — 
Crowning of their Stage Manager by the Scholars. — Conversa¬ 
tions with Rev. Dr. William 'Ellery Channing. — The Future Life. 


The illness which I mentioned in the preceding 
chapter was of long duration. As a faithful historian, 
fulfilling a trust, I cannot omit the narration of events 
which were produced by that illness. But I allude to 
them with reluctance — a reluctance which has perhaps 
no reasonable foundation. 

Dr. C-g, of New York, was called in to attend 

me. He considered my state dangerous. On the occa¬ 
sion of his first visit, after numerous inquiries in regard 
to my symptoms, he turned to Mr. Mowatt, and said, 
“ If she is susceptible to mesmerism, I think she can be 
relieved more readily than by any medicine that I 
could administer.” 

Mr. Mowatt had not any knowledge of mesmerism, 
nor had I. We had never seen a mesmeric subject — 
never heard a case fully described. He strongly ob¬ 
jected to my being made the subject of an experiment. 
An argument ensued which I did not hear. It ended 

(158) 



FIRST MESMERIC EXPERIENCE. 


159 


in Dr. C-g’s assurance that I might be greatly bene¬ 

fited by mesmeric treatment, but could not be injured. 
Mr. Mowatt finally assented to the doctor’s proposition. 
I was suffering too much to express an opinion, or even 
to have one. 

When Dr. C-g first proposed to mesmerize me, I 

was reclining in an arm chair. The doctor now placed 
himself in front of me. I remember his making what are 
called “ passes ” before my eyes. Very soon my head 
grew slightly dizzy — the room seemed filled with a dim 
haziness — the objects began to dance and float, and 
then to disappear. I recollect nothing further. 

I was afterwards told that in less than twenty minutes 
I fell into a very deep sleep, from which I suddenly 
emerged into a state of somnambulic consciousness. A 
similar deep sleep, I am assured, always subsequently 
preceded my state of mesmeric somnambulism. It was 
the drawbridge separating the waking from the “ sleep¬ 
waking ” state, over which I had inevitably to pass. 
Even when I had become so sensitive to the mesmeric 
influence that I could be put by it into the somnambulic 
state in less than a quarter of a minute, I am told there 
would be, to outward appearance, an absolute insensi¬ 
bility and suspension of all consciousness for an interval 
of several seconds, during which, if standing at the 
time, I would fall to the ground, unless supported. On 
entering the somnambulic state, thus induced by mes¬ 
merism, I am further informed I would be entirely un¬ 
conscious of the presence of other parties than the 
magnetizer, until they were put in communication with 
me by him; and that often I was subjected to much 
pain, and even thrown into convulsive shudderings, by 
being inconsiderately touched by persons not in commu¬ 
nication. 




160 


AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF AN ACTRESS. 


It should be stated that, from childhood, I had been 
occasionally addicted to natural somnambulism, and had 
repeatedly been known to walk and talk in my sleep. 
It is said that persons of this habit are especially sus¬ 
ceptible of the mesmeric influence. 

In regard to my first mesmeric trance, I must rely 
solely upon the testimony of others as to what trans¬ 
pired during its continuance. I had, and still have, no 
conscious recollection whatever in regard to its experi¬ 
ences. I can only repeat what I was told by those 
whose good faith and accuracy I cannot distrust. 

On being awakened from the state of somnambulism, 
I felt very much relieved and refreshed. The fever 
from which I had been suffering had nearly left me, 
and my head, which had ached incessantly for three 
days, was free from pain. I had slept between two and 
three hours. 

Mr. Mo watt and the doctor now amused themselves 
by relating some of the fantastic remarks which I 
had made while somnambulic. I began to think that 
I was the victim of a joke. Was it possible that I had 
been, but a few minutes previous, in a separate state of 
consciousness, during which I had talked, laughed, 
(laughed at my waking self, I was told!) and that, of it 
all, I could not bring away the faintest inkling of remem¬ 
brance ? Yet such, I am forced to believe, was the 
wonderful truth. I could with difficulty be persuaded 
that my trance was not a merely natural sleep, into 
which I had accidentally fallen. The physical relief 
produced did not strike me as remarkable, as I had been 
unable to sleep before for several days and nights. 

To mesmerism, under Heaven, I must believe I was 
subsequently indebted more than once for relief from a 


DOUBLE CONSCIOUSNESS. 


16 


prostration which no other human agency could have 
prevented from ending in dissolution. 

Dr. C-g attended me daily, and continued to use 

mesmerism as the most powerful agent in my restora¬ 
tion. I soon grew impatient at this apparent surrender 
of free will — one of Heaven’s choicest gifts to man. I 
was annoyed at being told that I had spoken, done, or 
written things of which I had no recollection. Numer¬ 
ous poems were placed in my hands, which, I was in¬ 
formed, I had improvised as rapidly as they could be¬ 
taken down, the subjects having been given haphazard 
by any person present. It was no particular gratifica¬ 
tion to be assured that I had never produced any 
thing as good before. Nor was it any consolation to be 
told that in sleep-waking I was far more sensible, more 
interesting, and more amiable than in my ordinary state. 
With womanly perverseness, I preferred my every-day 
imperfection to this mysterious and incomprehensibly 
brought about superiority. For the former I was at 
least responsible — to the latter I could lay no conscious 
claim. 

I say conscious claim; though it must be admitted 
that there may be separate states of consciousness. 
In the phenomena of this separation, the student of hu¬ 
man nature may, I believe, find the clew to momentous 
truths. The essential facts in ordinary somnambulism 
will not be denied except by those awfully rigorous 
inquirers who will accept nothing which they cannot 
weigh, gauge, and handle, and who are quite as likely 
to be deceived as the most credulous, inasmuch as the 
scepticism which admits too little is as liable to mistake 
as the marvellous propensity which admits too much. 
But if pretenders to science will not grant it, common 
11 



162 


AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF AN ACTRKSS. 


experience and common sense will , that a person in 
somnambulism may hold long and rational conversa¬ 
tions, and perform acts, of which he will have no recol¬ 
lection whatever in his waking state. Let him again 
pass, however, into somnambulism, and he can recall 
every thing that he ever experienced in that state. 

It would seem, from this common and undeniable 
phenomenon, as if there were an inner consciousness oc¬ 
cupying a higher plane than the external, and com¬ 
manding a more extensive prospect — a consciousness 
undeveloped in most minds except by flashes , and 
retiring within itself before the external can distinctly 
realize its presence. 

How shall we account for the thick veil of separation, 
dropped at once by the cessation of somnambulism 
(whether independent or induced by mesmerism) be¬ 
tween the normal and abnormal — the external and 
internal consciousness ? An analogy drawn from in¬ 
toxication or insanity is not precisely applicable here; 
for, under somnambulism, one may be as calm and 
rational, and as completely in possession of all his 
faculties, as ever in his waking state ; nay, those facul¬ 
ties may be considerably quickened and exalted. And 
yet a wave of the mesmerizer’s hand will bring the sub¬ 
ject back from the higher to the lower every-day con¬ 
sciousness, where all that he has been saying and doing 
in his somnambulic state is an utter blank ! Another 
wave of the hand, — or an access of natural somnam¬ 
bulism, entirely independent of mesmerism, — and lo! 
all the knowledge of the former state is restored, as if a 
curtain had been lifted. 

Townshend mentions an illustrative instance of the 
wonderful separation of these states in the case of 


MISS MARTINEAU. 


163 


E. A., a French youth, whom he was in the habit of 
mesmerizing. When awake, E. A. entertained infidel 
opinions of the worst kind. “ I asked him once, in his 
waking state,” writes Townshend,. “ what he thought be¬ 
came of us after death ; and his answer was, ‘ Des qu'on 
est mort , on 7i'est plus rien du tout' In sleep-waking 
all this was changed. His ideas of the mind were cor¬ 
rect, and singularly opposed to the material views 
he took of all questions when in the waking state. 
‘ Can the soul ever die ? ’ I asked. * Certainly not. It 
rs the soul which is the only true existence, and which 
gives existence to all we apprehend.’ Under mesmeric 
sleep-waking, all the hard incredulity which character¬ 
ized E. A. when awake was gone. His wilfulness was 
become submission, his pride humility. Often would 
he regret the errors of his waking hours.” 

Instances similar to the above are numerous. Truly, 
“ we are wiser than we know.” In the mind of the 
most stubborn materialist there may be an inner con¬ 
sciousness giving the lie to his outward unbelief — a 
consciousness which may be developed in some tre¬ 
mendous moment, perhaps in “ the last of earth,” 
to confound and overwhelm him, and to raze, as 
by a lightning flash, his edifices of intellectual pride and 
presumption. Georget, a distinguished French physi¬ 
cian, and author of several scientific works advocating 
the broadest materialism, was converted to a conviction 
of his error by witnessing the phenomena of somnam¬ 
bulism. Dying, he left a formal recantation of his phi¬ 
losophy, and his last moments were brightened by the 
serenest confidence in an hereafter for the soul. 

If ever the “livery of Heaven” was stolen “to 
serve the devil in,” it has been done by Miss Martineau, 


164 


AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF AN ACTRESS. 


and her ally, Mr. Atkinson, in their late atheistical 
work, in which they undertake to make some of the 
facts of mesmerism and somnambulism subservient to 
the cause of blank atheism and unbelief. I can say it 
boldly, that, so far as I have been permitted to bring 
impressions and recollections (which the magnetizer, 
by an act of his will, may let in to the waking conscious¬ 
ness of the somnambule) from my own ample somnambu¬ 
lic experience, (far ampler and more extraordinary than 
any which Miss Martineau, according to her own show¬ 
ing, has either experienced herself or witnessed in 
others,) they contradict, most emphatically, not only all 
her atheistical conclusions, but many of the loosely-as¬ 
sumed facts on which these are based. 

There is one passage in her work, which indicates 
such an extent of fatuity, such an ignorance of the 
actual phenomena from which she professes to reason, 
and such an absurd anticipation of great results from 
a cause ridiculously inadequate and inoperative, that 
1 must be pardoned for quoting it: “ The knowledge,” 
ahe says, “ which mesmerism gives of the influence of 
body on body, and consequently of mind on mind, will 
bring about a morality we have not yet dreamed of. 
And who shall disguise his nature and his acts when 
we cannot be sure at any moment that we are free 
from the clairvoyant eye of some one who is observing 
our actions and most secret thoughts, and our whole 
character and history may be read off at any moment ? ” 

Here is a substitute for the omniscient eye — such 
a substitute, alas! as no healthy mind could ever 
have seriously suggested, even supposing the capacity 
of human clairvoyance to be what Miss Martineau im¬ 
agines. Let conscience (she substantially tells us) 


MISS MART1NEAI3 AND MESMERISM. 


165 


once rid itself of a belief in God and a future state, 
and it will be kept right by the fancy that there may be 
some obscure somnambulist—we will suppose in Ore¬ 
gon, in Hindostan, or nearer home — perhaps some 
poor, feeble, little woman — who may have the power 
and intention of scanning our actions and thoughts! 
What a substitute have we here for a belief in a just 
and benevolent God! what an agency for bringing 
about “a morality we have not yet dreamed of”! 
Alas ! that any person of intelligence — above all, that 
a woman — should, from her intellectual “ pride of 
place,” fall into such a wretched “ slough of despond ” 
as this, and persuade herself that it is a bed of flowers ! 

If Miss Martineau knows any thing accurately of 
clairvoyance , she must know that its recognitions are 
almost always involuntary — flashing and vanishing like 
the lightning. Instances of clairvoyance , originated and 
sustained at will , are so rare, that I have heard of no 
one case in which any of the numerous offers of money 
for clairvoyant readings of concealed writings has been 
accepted. 

I could mention many instances in which Miss 
Martineau has entirely misapprehended or misstated 
the phenomena of mesmerism, -r- in which she has 
assumed, from the vaguest and most questionable prem¬ 
ises, the most momentous and unwarrantable conclu¬ 
sions, — on a subject, too, involving the peace of mind 
of thousands. But this is not the place for such a dis¬ 
cussion. In dragging the facts of somnambulism to the 
support of her dismal creed, she has recklessly and mis¬ 
chievously turned them from their most obvious and 
legitimate service. Give me such evidence of powers 
transcending the mortal senses as they supply, and the 


166 


AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF AN ACTRESS. 


whole tribe of atheists, from Lucretius to Atkinson, can 
no more shake my faith in spiritual things — in a 
heavenly Father and an immortal soul — than they 
can persuade me that heat and light proceed, not from 
the sun of our system, but from the ice at the north 
pole. 

Let me commend to Miss Martineau the following 
true and eloquent passage by one of her own country¬ 
men, the author of Church and State: “ Try to con¬ 
ceive a man without the ideas of God, eternity, free¬ 
dom, will, absolute truth ; of the good, the true, the 
beautiful, the infinite. An animal , endowed with a 
memory of appearances and facts, might remain; but 
the man will have vanished, and you have instead a 
creature more subtle than any beast of the field; upon 
the belly must it go, and dust must it eat all the days 
of its life! ” 

Ah, no! It is not to such a degradation that a 
knowledge of the real facts of somnambulism would 
lead us. They have none of that vapor of the charnel 
house about them which Miss Martineau’s imagination 
would impart. They are all of a cheering, elevating, 
and inspiring character. They lift our thoughts ever to 
another and a better life — to heaven, and to anticipa¬ 
tions 

“ Of all that is most beauteous, imaged there 
In happier beauty ; more pellucid streams, 

An ampler ether, a diviner air, 

And fields invested with purpureal gleams; 

Climes which the sun, that sheds the brightest day 
Earth knows, is all unworthy to survey.” * 

The question, “ whether the soul thinks always,” is 
decided by Locke in the negative, on the ground that 


* Wordsworth. 


INDEPENDENT SOMNAMBULISM. 167 

after-consciousness is the only testimony we can have 
of the mind’s activity ; and that, since we are by no 
means conscious that we think always, we ought not to 
assume that we do think always. I believe, with Towns- 
hend, that in this notion Locke was fundamentally 
wrong; for, equally with Townshend’s somnambulist, I 
have the testimony of my fellow-beings that the state 
which, once ended, appeared a blank to me, was, in 
truth, “ marked by energy and activity of the highest 
order.” 

On one point I felt a degree of satisfaction — though, 
perhaps, it was only a proof of my natural obstinacy. 
They told me that I was what is called an independent 
somnambulist; and that I could, at any time, defeat the 
will of the mesmerizer, unless I chose to submit. It 
was also told me that my reasoning faculties were sin¬ 
gularly developed under somnambulism, and that I often 
maintained opinions at variance with those of the mes¬ 
merizer and of others with whom I was in communica¬ 
tion, especially on religious subjects. These opinions 
I could not be forced to relinquish by arguments, or 
even through the exertion of a superior will. 

This brings me to another circumstance of somewhat 
graver interest. While I was in a somnambulic state, 
Mr. Mowatt often conversed with me alone for hours 
together. Religion was the subject upon which he most 
frequently dwelt. His mind had naturally a strong 
sceptical tendency, confirmed by a system of education 
miscalled philosophical. In what manner his favorite 
theories were overturned, and his belief in revealed 
religion established, I do not understand; I only know 
that there was a downfall of the olden fabric, and a 
foundation laid for the new. While his religious views 


168 


AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF AN ACTRESS. 


were undergoing a total revolution, he encountered in 

the street Dr. W-y, an old and esteemed friend. 

The doctor naturally inquired after my health. In 
reply, Mr. Mowatt related the singular events of the last 
few days — his own deep impressions and consequent 
change of feeling. 

“ Mrs. Mowatt must have read Swedenborg’s works,” 
said Dr. W-y; “ for those are the doctrines Swe¬ 

denborg promulgates.” 

Mr. Mowatt replied that this could not be the case, 
“ as all my reading, since I was fifteen years old, had 
been known to him.” 

He was right. I had never read a line of Sweden¬ 
borg’s writings — I had never heard his doctrines men¬ 
tioned. 

Dr. W-y requested Mr. Mowatt to ask me cer¬ 

tain questions the next time I was in a somnambulic 
state, and to let him know the replies. 

I have often heard what these questions were, but 
cannot trust my memory to repeat them with accu¬ 
racy. 

The questions were asked, and the answers returned 

to Dr. W-y. His reply upon hearing them was, 

“ Those are the doctrines revealed through Sweden¬ 
borg.” 

“ Who is Swedenborg ? What are his doctrines ? 
Where shall I find a church in which they are taught ? 
How shall I obtain his writings ? ” were Mr. Mowatt’s 
eager inquiries. 

Dr. W-y was himself an earnest New Church¬ 

man, and gave the required information. 

The next Sunday Mr. Mowatt went to hear Mr. Bar¬ 
rett, a New Church minister, preach. My indisposition 







NEW CHURCH DOCTRINES. 


169 


still confined me to the house. I asked him how he 
liked the sermon, and what it was about. He answered 
that he hardly knew how he liked it, though he had 
never listened to a sermon with so much interest in his 
life. He should certainly attend the New Church 
again. 

The next day he procured several volumes of Swe¬ 
denborg’s works. They were in large, old-fashioned 
print; but Mr. Mowatt’s eyes were still so much affected 
that he could only read for ten minutes or a quarter of 
an hour at a time. 

I used to feel troubled to see him, day after day, por¬ 
ing over these huge volumes at the risk of ruining his 
eyesight; but the knowledge for which he thirsted 
brought him too much happiness for any remonstrances 
to be heeded. While I remained ill, I felt an indiffer¬ 
ence almost amounting to aversion towards the writings 
of Swedenborg, and invariably grew weary when they 
were discussed. As I became stronger, I resumed my 
usual occupation of reading aloud to Mr. Mowatt. He 
did not care to listen to any author but Swedenborg; 
and theiefore from Swedenborg’s works I read. My 
interest was quickly awakened. I read with avidity; 
and involuntarily, from an internal conviction, as it 
were, accepted the doctrines. I never had a doubt 
to combat. Sometimes it seemed to me as though I had 
known all that was there revealed — believed it all 
before — only I had never deliberately thought on the 
subject. 

With the full acceptance of New Church doctrines 
came 

“ The cheerful faith, that all which we behold 
Is full of blessings.” 


170 


AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF AN ACTRESS. 


All things in life wore a different aspect. I realized 
that the things which befall us in time had no true im¬ 
portance except as they regarded eternity. Whatever 
we received from above was good, whether it came in 
the shape of prosperity or misfortune, for it was but a 
means to fit us for our future states. It became easy 
to perceive that the most trivial of 

“ Our daily joys and pains advance 
To a divine significance.” 

Life’s trials lost all their bitterness. 

As I have no intention of discussing New Church 
doctrines, I pass over our first acquaintance with min¬ 
isters and members of the church, and other circum¬ 
stances in the same connection. 

In six months more we had both made open confes¬ 
sion of our belief and become members of the New 
Church. One by one, four of my sisters (but none of 
them in the slightest degree influenced by me) were 
baptized before the same altar, and communed at the 
same table. One of them, Mrs. William Turner, who was 
unquestionably the profoundest thinker and best rea- 
soner, had been for many years a communicant in the 
Episcopal church. Great opposition was made by her 
religious friends to her open change of faith. She made 
an able defence of her conduct in two volumes, published 
in New York, the one entitled “ Reasons for joining the 
New Church, by a former Member of the Episcopal 
Church; ” and the other, “ Principal Points of Differ¬ 
ence between the Old and New Christian Churches.” 
The latter of these was reprinted in London without 
my sister’s knowledge, and had an extensive circulation. 

To return to my mesmeric experiences. “ I have 


MESMERIC PHENOMENA. 


171 


seen you,” writes a friend, “ several hundred times in 
this somnambulic state, during a period extending over 
three years. The peculiarities which distinguished it 
were most remarkable. Your eyelids, in this state, 
when you were particularly animated, would be tightly 
closed, and yet there would be a luminous expression 
on your countenance which could hardly have been 
equalled with the aid of your open eyes. Generally 
the eyelids would hang loose, and slightly open ; and 
then it could be seen that the balls were always so 
rolled up that they could not be a medium of vision. 
During the months and years that I saw you almost 
daily in this state, I could never detect the waking 
expression on your face. Whatever might occur to 
startle or surprise, never by any accident were the 
eyes thrown open as they would have been when 
awake. 

“ It was remarked by all that your voice was much 
more soft and childlike than usual. Indeed, your whole 
manner would be changed, as if you had become once 
more as a little child. You would always allude to your 
waking self, or material body, in the third person, as 
she. For instance, you would say, ‘ She isn’t hungry ; ’ 
never, by any inadvertence, ‘ I am not hungry.’ It 
was rather unpleasant to you to be confounded with 
your physical person. It was sometimes a little em¬ 
barrassing to others to keep your identities distinct, and 
they would often confound the two in conversation. 
But the distinction would be never lost for a moment by 
yourself. To you, the existence of spiritual body, dis¬ 
tinct from the natural, seemed a consciousness as vivid 
as that which assures us that we breathe and move. 
The words of St. Paul, ‘ There is a natural body, and 


172 


AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF AN ACTRESS. 


there is a spiritual body/ were to you something more 
than a figure of speech— they were a literal truth, not 
to be explained away or darkened by any ingenuity of 
commentators or dogmatism of theologians. 

“ Your household duties and accustomed functions 
would be discharged by you in the somnambulic state 
with perfect convenience, and with a promptitude quite 
exemplary. You would frequently take your meals in 
this state; and, if your magnetizer were present, you 
would manifest the phenomenon of sympathy of taste 
in a marked and satisfactory manner — telling whether 
he were taking salt or vinegar, pepper or mustard, &c., 
when he might be behind a screen. At night, before 
the lamps were lighted, you would have a decided ad¬ 
vantage over all others in the room in your ability to 
read, write, or work, while the rest of us might not be 
able to see our hands before us. I have several speci¬ 
mens of your somnambulic handiwork, in the form of 
moss and flowers arranged most tastefully on paper, and 
the whole executed in my presence while it was totally 
dark. I have also letters which were penned by you 
in utter darkness ; and, strange to say, the handwriting 
is greatly superior to your usual careless chirography, 
and would not be supposed to be from the same hand. 

“ Your conversation was more marked by fluency and 
confidence (especially on religious subjects) than in 
your ordinary state. But as I looked mainly to the 
palpable phenomena of your case, I took little note of 
your opinions. Still I was not insensible to the psychical 
phenomena continually presented. They were too 
numerous to recount in this rapid summary. ‘ The 
merest trifles,’ says a philosopher of our day, ‘ are in¬ 
teresting that suggest to us an action in man independ- 


MESMERIC PHENOMENA. 


173 


eiit of his present organization . Now, mesmerism 
teems with more than slight indications of this ; and we 
should treasure up such glimmerings of futurity — 
however faint, and however presented to us — as in¬ 
estimable proofs that we possess a germ of being which 
God permits us to behold partially unfolded here, in 
order to confirm our faith as to its fuller development 
hereafter.’ Most thoroughly do I acquiesce in this sen¬ 
timent, and most cogently have my experiences in your 
case commended it to my acceptance. 

“ Frequently, after you had been wakened from a 
long magnetic trance, during which a variety of incidents 
may have occurred, and many topics may have been 
discussed, I have (with the consent of your magnetizer, 
and seconded by his will) brought up, one by one, by 
the silent agency of my will, to your waking conscious¬ 
ness, any incident or topic which might suggest itself. 
This I would do simply by touching your forehead with 
my forefinger, thinking the while intently on the image 
to be awakened in your mind. The response would be 
as perfect and accurate as that from the keys of a piano. 
For instance, out of a hundred various incidents, I 
would select that of a plate of strawberries having 
been offered to you, or that of a watch having been 
wound up; and by a touch on your forehead the image 
would be instantaneously brought up, and you would 
exclaim, ‘ Strawberries ! ’ or ‘ Watch ! ’ as it might have 
been. I repeated this experiment so often with success, 
that finally, though so marvellous in itself, it grew to 
be, like other daily marvels, an occasion for no emotion 
of surprise. 

“ Not only was your philanthropy more catholic and 
active, but towards the brute creation, especially the 


174 


AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF AN ACTRESS. 


more despised, such as insects, spiders, snakes, &c., 
from which you would shrink affrighted in your waking 
state, you would manifest a strange and fearless tender¬ 
ness: You would take them up, if injured, in your 
hands, and remove them to a place of safety. Fond of 
flowers when .awake, you were doubly so in this singular 
state. You would manifest an intuitive faculty of de¬ 
tecting the seats of disease in persons; often pointing 
out the part affected, as if from sympathy. 

“ I cannot recall, in this hurried letter, half the inter¬ 
esting phenomena witnessed in your case — such as 
your insensibility to the pain of an incision or wound 
in a magnetized limb — your quick reception of a 
mental communication, without the medium of any 
'sound or sign — your distinct prevision (at one time six 
months in advance) of crises of disease — your detection 
of the character of an individual by pressing the hand 
— your ability to choose, out of a heap of miscellaneous 
articles, the one magnetized — your many striking de¬ 
velopments of faculties and modes of thought distin¬ 
guishing you, in a marvellous manner, from your 
waking self. 

“ On one occasion, at a time when you had suffered 
from repeated hemorrhages at the lungs, and we all 
feared that you would not live through the winter, you 
were kept in the somnambulic state an entire fortnight 
without being once wakened. The reason for this was, 
that while somnambulic you were far more manageable 
and reliable in observing all necessary precautions; and 
that you also seemed less sensitive to the cold, and 
your violent attacks of coughing were much more under 
control. At the time you were thrown into the som- 
c**mbulic state on this occasion, there had been a heavy 


PROLONGED TRANCE. 


175 


snow storm, and Broadway, in New York, on which 
thoroughfare your windows looked, was blocked up with 
snow. There was a rose bush in your room, having a 
little green bud upon it, upon which a faint speck of 
crimson had just appeared. Your last impressions, 
when you were thrown into somnambulism, were of the 
snow without and the rose bush within. A fortnight 
afterwards, your magnetizer, without preparing you for 
the change in surrounding objects, suddenly awaked 
you and led you to the window. Every flake of the 
immense accumulation of snow had disappeared. He 
then led you to the well-known rose bush. The little 
bud was in full, luxuriant bloom ! I shall never forget 
the expression of bewilderment and consternation on 
your face as you looked upon changes that seemed to 
strike you as miraculous. The fortnight was, to your 
waking consciousness, but a moment! Such was your 
excessive agitation that your magnetizer was obliged to 
make the passes at once, and restore you to your som¬ 
nambulic consciousness. He then gave you an ‘ ordi¬ 
nation ’ to carry into your waking state so much recol¬ 
lection of your fortnight’s experience as would prepare 
you fully for the changes around you. 

“ A year or two previously, and a week or two after 

you were first magnetized by Dr. C-g, which was 

while you were stopping at the Astor House, in New 
York, ii^ the winter of 1842, the illness under which 
you were laboring assumed a more alarming aspect than 
it had yet worn, and, while somnambulic, you were 
charged by your magnetizer to investigate your physical 
condition. I was not present, but learned, the same 
day, that you had predicted a great crisis in your mal¬ 
ady at a certain hour in the night, the week following. 



176 


AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF AN ACTRESS. 


To the inquiry, whether any medical relief could be 
given, you replied, ‘No drugs — mesmerism may pos¬ 
sibly bring her through/ You pronounced yourself 
uncertain as to the issue of the crisis, but gave great 

encouragement to Dr. C-g to believe that prompt 

and earnest mesmeric aid would avail in producing the 

required relief. On the night fixed, at Dr. C-g’s 

request, I accompanied him to your parlor at the Astor 
House, and you were shortly afterwards mesmerized, 
and I was put in communication. Mr. Mowatt was 
present, and was also put in communication. While 
awake, you had not had the slightest anticipation of 
what was expected, and no one had intimated your 
mesmeric prediction. 

“We engaged in conversation, and had some hope of 
drawing your mind from the anticipated attack. You 
were perfectly tranquil, and conversed freely on various 
subjects. But precisely at the hour you had prevised 
and predicted, an expression of the intensest pain came 
upon your face, and you fell back in the most violent 

convulsions. Dr. C-g bore you to the sofa; but, 

though a strong man, his strength was unequal to the 
task of controlling the horrible spasms, which quivered 
through all your limbs and disfigured your face. At 
one time, every fibre was knotted into a state of iron 
rigidity. Your writhings were fearful to witness. Dr. 

C-g pronounced the attack congestion of the brain. 

Your face was purple, your forehead throbbed violently, 
and your skin was of the highest fever heat. Dr. 

C-g used no other ministration than the mesmeric 

passes throughout the attack, which lasted, with hardly 
an instant’s cessation, about an hour. At the end of 
that time there was a sudden relaxation of your limbs, 







MESMERIC FACTS. 


177 


and they seemed to settle into a state of repose. Your 
countenance became pale, and we half feared your last 
earthly moment had come. But a smile of inexpres¬ 
sible sweetness broke forth, (and your closed eyes 
seemed to make it all the more luminous,) and you whis¬ 
pered, in the childlike tone which was peculiar to your 
somnambulic state, 4 You have brought her through.’ 

4 Thank God ! ’ exclaimed Dr. C-g, bursting into 

tears, with uncontrollable emotion. 

44 After this crisis your health began slowly to im¬ 
prove, though your lungs were still very sensitive, and 
you were subjected to frequent spitting of blood and 
violent fits of coughing, which kept your friends contin 
ually in a state of suspense as to your recovery. 

44 Your exact knowledge of time in the somnambulic 
state was a remarkable trait. No chronometer could be 
more exact. It seemed as if all nature were your dial 
plate* and that you could at any moment read what its 
index denoted. 

“ I am inclined to believe it is only those somnambules 
who are naturally pliable and dependent who are under 
the entire control of their magnetizers. There was 
certainly no surrender of your will to yours. You were 
the dictator to him on all occasions as to what you 
should do. You prescribed your own medicines and 
diet; disputed, argued, and disagreed with him often ; 
and were entirely independent of him, except so far as 
related to the keeping up of the magnetic influence by 
an occasional visit from him and a renewal (without 
touch) of the passes. He would leave you in the som¬ 
nambulic state with Mr. Mowatt or your sister, and, 
perhaps, not see you again for twenty-four hours. 

“ Although, in this state, you were always cheerful, 
12 



178 


AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF AN ACTRESS. 


and sometimes jocose, one of its most prominent devel¬ 
opments was that of your religious faculties and sym¬ 
pathies. Frequently you would talk, like one inspired, 
of spiritual realities and the meaning of life. What in 
your waking state was faith , seemed to be sight in your 
somnambulic. It was no longer a speculation, or even 
a belief, that there was a life after death, but a knowl¬ 
edge , far more confident and assured than that which we 
usually entertain, on going to bed, that we shall wake 
in the morning. 

“ In crises of disease, when your physician did not 
believe you would live through the week, he would tell 
you, in your somnambulic state, his apprehensions, 
though it would have been dangerous to communicate 
them to you awake. The perfect equanimity, even 
cheerfulness, with which you would receive such an¬ 
nouncements, was matter of surprise to all who wit¬ 
nessed it. In times of extreme emaciation, when you 
could be lifted like a child, and when all who looked on 
you and heard your paroxysms of coughing would turn 
away with the persuasion that you could not ‘ last 
through the season/ you had always, in your somnam¬ 
bulic state, some pleasantry with which to dispel the 
fears of the standers by. The truth was, that, though 
you regarded death as a welcome emancipation, you 
still knew, far better than the doctor, the physical state 
of the ‘ simpleton/ as you used to call your waking 
self, and relied upon mesmerism to bring her through. 

“ Your views of death, at the same time, in your 
somnambulic state, were always so serenely assured, 
and such was the quiet satisfaction with which you 
seemed to look forward on what John Sterling calls 
‘the common road into the great darkness/ that, the 


VISIT TO A FORMER HOME. 


179 


nearer the prospect was brought, the more grateful it 
became ; or rather, to you there was no darkness, but 
it was all a rosy light, and to your mind 

‘ This King of Terrors was the Prince of Peace.’ 

“ The separation of the waking from the somnambulic 
consciousness in your case was most complete and per¬ 
fect. Never, by any accident, could I discover that 
you brought into your waking state the slightest recol¬ 
lection of what had occurred in your somnambulic; 
and this during a period of three years. To the psy¬ 
chologist, as well as the physiologist, all the phenomena 
of your case were intensely interesting, as the many per¬ 
sons who had an opportunity of investigating them will 
admit.” 

During my illness, the beloved home which I had 
made such efforts to save was sold. As soon as I was 
able to drive out, I begged to be allowed to visit it once 
again. It was spring, but a late spring. Not a tree 
had begun to bud. The gardens, which I had last seen 
in all the richness of their autumn bloom, were bare 
of leaf or flower, excepting a few crocuses that had 
pierced through the slowly-melting snow. The favorite 
arbor appeared more bleak and desolate even than the 
gardens. Brown and withered vine stems alone covered 
the trellis, where huge clusters of grapes had hung in 
purple luxuriance. Even the greenhouse had a de¬ 
serted air. Many of the flowers had been removed, 
many more had died, and those that remained were suf¬ 
fering from neglect. We looked around for the helio¬ 
trope of hair-decking memory — it was gone. After 
wandering about the grounds until we were chilled in 
more senses than one, we took refuge in the house. 


180 


AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF AN ACTRESS. 


The unfurnished rooms had a cold, deserted aspect, but 
to me every nook and corner teemed with delightful as¬ 
sociations. I could scarcely compel myself .to believe 
that this house would nevermore be our home; that in 
this bright, cheerful chamber I should never again 
sleep; that there would be no more merrymeetings in 
this large, old-fashioned ball room, which at Christmas 
time was ever decked with evergreens, and on sum¬ 
mer festivities ever garlanded with flowers; that there 
would be no more plays in our little theatre, no more 
bands of music in the old hall. But so it was. Yet, 
when the certainty of what must be resigned came upon 
me, its pain had been abstracted. The loss was heavy, 
but could be reckoned; the gain since that loss no 
human reckoning could measure. 

It was arranged that if my health were sufficiently 
restored I should resume my public readings in the 
autumn, making the tour of the United States for that 
purpose. 

We passed the summer at Lennox, — one of the most 
picturesquely beautiful localities I ever visited, — 
a summer brightened by constant intercourse with the 
gifted Miss Sedgwick and her genial relatives. Mrs. 
Charles Sedgwick kept a seminary for young ladies. 
Amongst her scholars were a number of charming girls. 
We soon became acquainted, and they used to treat me 
as a companion, crowding my apartment at every re¬ 
cess, and bringing me fruits, and flowers, and other 
simple offerings of affection. I grew warmly attached 
to many of them, as I believe they were to me. They 
made me listen to their grievances, or join in their 
games, or read aloud for their amusement. Then came 
the usual schoolgirl interchange of locks of hair and 


miss Sedgwick’s play. 


181 


pressed flowers. I still preserve a goodly pile of curls, 
ringlets, and braids of various hues, that remind me of 
lovely Lennox schoolgirls, now wives and mothers. 

Miss Sedgwick wrote them a play, and they pressed 
me into service as stage manager, costumer, and 
prompter. The rehearsals were particularly amus¬ 
ing. There were some tragic effects necessary, and 
my young pupils found the greatest diversion in learn¬ 
ing how to stab themselves gracefully and die in atti¬ 
tude. I devoted a week to teaching them their parts, 
planning their costumes, and making tow wigs to repre¬ 
sent the gray hairs of age or the powdered toupees of 
English footmen. 

The play was performed before a numerous assem¬ 
blage of Mrs. Sedgwick’s friends. It was highly suc¬ 
cessful. The girls acted with great spirit, and even the 
tow wigs “ made a hit.” I was busily engaged behind 
the scenes during the performance, but joined the com¬ 
pany in the drawing room at its conclusion. Feeling 
greatly fatigued, I was just planning how I could steal 
off unnoticed, when the door was thrown open with an 
emphasis that announced some important entrance. 
The scholars in procession walked in, the eldest bear¬ 
ing a wreath of white flowers. The crowd drew back, 
and the young girls approached their amateur manager. 
I could only stare at them in mute and embarrassed 
astonishment. The crownbearer made me a simple 
and feeling address, and placed the wreath upon my 
head — a very tired, aching head it chanced to be. 
This was a part of the performance which I had not 
anticipated. Of course, it was necessary to say some¬ 
thing; but 1 fancy I made a rather stupid and awkward 
acknowledgment, for I was taken unawares, supposing 


182 


AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF AN ACTRESS.. 


that the curtain had fallen upon my portion of the en¬ 
tertainment, and left me where I had passed the even¬ 
ing — happily behind the scenes. 

The distinguished divine, Dr. William Ellery Chan- 
ning, was an honored guest at this performance. He 
was warm in his expressions of delight, and many times 
rose from his seat, and clapped his hands, and laughed 
with genuine enjoyment. Some of the guests remarked, 
that, in watching him, they forgot to look at the play. 

He said to me afterwards, “ I was never in a theatre 
but once in my life, and that was when I was travelling 
in England. I saw Othello, but I was not half so much 
entertained as I have been to-night with the perform¬ 
ance of these young girls.” 

Dr. Channing and his family resided in the same 
hotel with us. We spent many hours together, and I 
was never tired of listening to his eloquent discourse, 
and watching the brilliant play of his benign counte¬ 
nance. One day I was sitting on the piazza, reading 
aloud to Mr. Mowatt. The book was Swedenborg’s 
Divine Providence. A slight movement behind my 
chair caused me to turn. Dr. Channing was leaning 
against the open door, apparently listening. He told 
me to go on, and I had no excuse for not obeying. I 
read for some time uninterruptedly. At length he ac¬ 
costed me with, “ Do you understand what you are 
reading ? ” 

I replied, “ I think I do.” 

“ Do you believe it ? ” 

“Yes.” 

“ What makes you believe it ? ” 

“ Because Icarit help it” 

“ That’s a woman's reason,” he answered, laughing ; 
“ but I believe it is the strongest you could give.” 


DR. WILLIAM ELLERY CHANNING. 


183 


He then told me that he had read a portion of Swe¬ 
denborg’s works with great attention, and he reverenced 
the author, although the doctrines had not, as yet, carried 
the same conviction to his mind as they had done to 
ours. 

In the subject of mesmerism he took the deepest in¬ 
terest. On two occasions he persuaded me to allow' 
myself to be placed under the influence, that he might 
satisfy himself on several doubtful points. One was of 
the possibility of mind communicating with mind with¬ 
out the medium of language or any material sign. His 
experiment, I believe, convinced him that this could be 
the case. 

I recited, at his request, several of the selections 
which I had read in public. He now and then kindly 
pointed out defects in elocution or faulty pronuncia¬ 
tions. And even now I can nevdr utter one or two of 
the words in the pronunciation of which he corrected 
me without thinking of Dr. Channing. The day be¬ 
fore we parted he came to my room and asked me to 
read to him once more. I did so, and he then proposed 
in return to read to me. He chose Bryant’s exquisite 
poem of the Future Life. His silvery tones were 
tremulous as he read, and his mild eyes beamed with a 
lustre almost angelic. In his manner there was some¬ 
thing so solemn and impressive that I listened with awe. 
In less than a month he himself entered that future 
life, 

“ The sphere that keeps 
The disimbodied spirits of the dead.” 

He was standing on its threshold when he read to me. 
I might well hearken with suspended breath, in rapt and 
wondering reverence. 


CHAPTER X 


Contributions to Magazines. — The Fortune Hunter. — Miscella¬ 
neous Bookmaking. — Evelyn. — Amusing Proposition from an 
English Publisher. — Singular Mode of violating a Copyright .— 
Mary Howto's Mention of the three Orphans. — Little Esther. — 
Death Bed of the Mother. — One's Neighbors. — Drive to Har¬ 
lem. —Search for the Greys. — A blind Father. — Margaret. — 
Death of her Father and Mother. — Johnny and Willie. 

Autumn did not find me sufficiently reestablished in 
health to resume my public readings, as was proposed. 
This was a heavy disappointment, but I was well 
enough for less fatiguing occupation. So little had 
been saved from the wreck of our fortune that there 
was strong need for exertion. I wrote a series of lively 
articles under the nom de plume of “ Helen Berkley.” 
They were published in various popular magazines, and 
I was well remunerated. These articles consisted of 
sketches of celebrated persons with whom I had been 
brought into communication, and humorous stories, gen¬ 
erally founded on fact. The larger portion of them 
have since appeared in London magazines. Several 
were translated into German, and reprinted. Under my 
own name I at that time published nothing but verse. 

I had half determined to attempt a tale of some 
length, and was pondering upon the subject, when a 
friend informed me that the New World newspaper had 
offered one hundred dollars for the best original novel in 
one volume. The title must be the Fortune Hunter 

(184) 


THE FORTUNE HUNTER. 


185 


and the scene laid in New York. The novel must be 
completed in a month, or within six weeks at the 
latest. 

“ Why do you not try what you can do ? ” said my 
friend. “Write a story in your Mrs. Berkley style — 
you can easily make the title apply. Ten to one your 
novel will be the one accepted.” 

Thus encouraged, I lost no time, and that very day 
made the sketch of a plot, which I submitted to my 
counsellor and friend. He approved, and I went to 
work diligently. At the time appointed, the book was 
completed. It was presented to the New World publish¬ 
ers, and the note for one hundred dollars sent me in re¬ 
turn, was the most agreeable evidence of its acceptance. 
The Fortune Hunter had an extensive sale, and, after 
my identity with Mrs. Berkley became known, the pub¬ 
lishers chose to affix my name to the work. The copy¬ 
right being theirs, my consent was not even asked. 

I was very much amused by an article that appeared 
in one of the papers accusing me of being an imitator 
of Mrs. Berkley, and more than hinting that the imita¬ 
tion fell far short of the original. 

The Fortune Hunter has lately been translated into 
German 

I continued to write for various magazines — the 
Columbian, Democratic Review, Ladies’ Companion, 
Godey’s, Graham’s, &c. I used fictitious names, and 
sometimes supplied the same number of a magazine 
with several articles, only one of which was supposed 
to be my own. I also prepared for the press a number 
of works, the copyrights of which were purchased by 
Messrs. Burgess & Stringer. They were principally 
compilations, with as much or as little original matter 


186 


AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF AN ACTRESS. 


as was found necessary — book cement, to make the odd 
fragments adhere together. The subjects of these books 
were not of my own choosing — I wrote to order, for 
profit, and to supply the demands of the public. In 
this manner were produced Housekeeping made Easy, 
(the name of Mrs. Ellis was not affixed by me,) Book 
of the Toilette, Cookery for the Sick, Book of Embroid¬ 
ery, Knitting, Netting, and Crotchet, Etiquette for 
Ladies, Ball-room Etiquette, Etiquette of Matrimony, 
and similar publications, the very names of which I can¬ 
not now remember. 

These books, especially the first, proved very profit¬ 
able, so much so that Mr. Mowatt concluded he would 
derive greater benefit by publishing the works I com¬ 
piled himself, than by selling the copyright to other 
publishers. He accordingly established a firm, and his 
books were supplied chiefly by me. The success of the 
undertaking was of brief duration. 

My time was wholly engrossed in bookmaking; but 
having now more freedom of choice as regarded the 
works I prepared, cookery books and books on etiquette 
were gladly abandoned. I found more congenial occu¬ 
pation in abridging a Life of Goethe, and another of 
Madame D’Arblay. The pleasure, however, was of a 
particularly private nature, for the books proved un¬ 
salable. Not a little disheartened by their failure, I 
returned to my labors in a less interesting but more lu¬ 
crative field of literature. 

I could not drudge always, — for this book compiling 
was unmitigated drudgery, — and during leisure mo¬ 
ments I amused myself by writing Evelyn, a domestic 
tale, in two volumes. Frederika Bremer’s works, trans¬ 
lated by Mary Howitt, were my favorites amongst mod- 


EYELYN. 


187 


ern novels. The delight with which I perused them 
undoubtedly influenced the style in which Evelyn was 
written. 

Evelyn herself was not an ideal creation. I could 
never write mere fiction; I needed a groundwork of 
reality. Her history was that of one whom I had 
dearly loved — over whose tomb there are few to weep, 
but whose sin we may dare to hope was forgiven, for 
“ she loved much.” 

When the book was completed, an English literary 
gentleman proposed that I should allow him to take the 
manuscript to London, and have it published there pre¬ 
vious to its appearance in this country. I consented, and 
a few months afterwards received a notice from a London 
publisher that he would purchase the English copyright 
and produce the book, if I would write a third volume. 
He assured me that nobody purchased novels in two 
volumes — all the popular writers of the day extended 
their romances to three. As the second volume of Eve¬ 
lyn ends with the heroine’s death, I did not see how I 
could with propriety bring her to life and prolong her 
miseries through another volume. The offer of the 
London publisher was politely declined. Evelyn was 
published, as originally written, by Carey & Hart, of 
Philadelphia. Owing to the delay occasioned in re¬ 
gaining possession of the manuscript, the work was not 
produced until I had made my debut upon the stage. 
This event probably accounted for its rapid sale. The 
copyright fortunately remained in my own possession. 

A rather singular violation of this copyright took 
place in Cincinnati. The book was abridged into one 
volume, and published, with a wretched frontispiece, as 
a sort of souvenir for young ladies. The word London 


188 


AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF AN ACTRESS. 


was to be found upon the titlepage ; but the type, pa¬ 
per, and general getting up of the book betrayed this 
to be a mere ruse de guerre . This mangled edition 
appears also to have had a sale. Its existence was a 
source of much annoyance, but could not be prevented 
without the institution of legal proceedings. These 
were not taken. 

Incidents of a different nature belong to this period. 

Mary Howitt, in her memoir of me, makes affection¬ 
ate mention of three orphan children, who were pro¬ 
tected and educated by Mr. Mowatt and myself, as 
though the act were one of premeditated and intentional 
charity. This was not so. I should consider our first 
acquaintance and whole intercourse with the family of 
the Greys as merely accidental , could I believe that 
that word applied to any event of life. Providential it 
certainly was to them, and we were but unconscious in¬ 
struments in the hands of a higher Power. The cir¬ 
cumstances which led to our becoming interested in the 
children of the Greys were these. Returning from a 
drive one severely cold day in November, I noticed a 
little beggar girl, thinly clad, who was seated upon our 
doorsteps, sobbing violently. She cried like a child in 
real distress. I stopped to ask what ailed her, and 
could gain no answer but tears. As I was still an in¬ 
valid, and dared not remain in the cold, I told the ser¬ 
vant to make the little girl come into the parlor to talk 
with me. She was brought in with some difficulty, but 
gradually the warm fire thawed her half-frozen limbs, 
and perhaps her heart. 

“ Tell me what you are crying about! ” had been 
repeated some twenty times, in all varieties of coaxing 
intonations, before I could gain a reply. 


LITTLE ESTHER. 


189 


At last her tongue was unloosed, and she sobbed out, 
“ Mother’s very ill, and they say she is dying! Fa¬ 
ther’s got no work, and sent me out for cold victuals ; but 
I can’t get nothing, and your cook turned me out of the 
kitchen.” 

Little Esther’s grief was too genuine for me to doubt 
her story. I inquired where her mother lived. The 
distance was very short. I had not thrown aside my 
hat and cloak ; it was easy to accompany her home. 
She took me to a dilapidated building, and we entered 
a small, close room. Upon a cot in one corner lay a 
young woman, whose ghastly features betokened acute 
suffering. A puny infant, about two or three weeks 
old, rested upon her arm. The little creature was 
moaning piteously, but seemed too feeble to cry. In¬ 
stead of the plump ruddiness of first babyhood, its face 
was as pallid as that of the mother, and far more 
wrinkled. 

The woman told me her history — it was one of utter 
destitution. She added, that she believed herself to be 
dying; but her chief anxiety was for her children. I 
promised to visit her occasionally, and to interest others 
in her behalf, and left, desiring her to send little Esther 
to see me the next morning. 

Esther was a dark-eyed, bright little creature, and, I 
thought, affectionate. When she came in the morning, 
I sent her home to tell her mother that, if the latter 
chose, I would keep the child to run on errands and 
wait upon me, and that I would take as good care of 
her as I could. I had no particular use for her, but I 
loved the presence of childhood about the house. The 
mother returned her thanks and hearty consent. With 
the assistance of my sisters, Esther was soon furnished 


190 


AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF AN ACTRESS. 


with a suitable wardrobe, and her ragged, “ cold-victual 
clothes ” (as she used to call them) were exchanged for 
neat and comfortable attire. She seemed happy in her 
neW home, and gave me little trouble. I accompanied 
her to see her mother at short intervals. For a month 
the poor woman gradually grew worse. One Sunday 
afternoon Esther rushed into the room greatly agitated, 
and said, “ Come quickly to my mother — she is 
dying! ” 

I went. The room was filled with the Roman Cath¬ 
olic friends of the dying woman, who were performing 
the last ordinances of their religion. They drew back, 
and allowed me to approach the bed with the child. 
The mother tried to speak, but could not. She feebly 
lifted her hand, looked in my face, and smiled as the 
dying only can smile. A few moments afterwards she 
expired. 

Esther, for some days, was almost inconsolable for 
the loss of her mother, and was often at home, taking 
care of her baby sister. I wish I-were not compelled 
to allude to the father, one of the coarsest specimens of 
an Irishman that could well be found. In less than a 
week after his wife’s funeral he called upon Mr. Mowatt, 
and demanded wages for his daughter — a child not yet 
ten years of age. Mr. Mowatt explained to him that 
she was only allowed to remain in the house to please 
me ; that she was too young to be of any service; and 
that all indebtedness was on the side of the parent. 
The man rudely replied, that, if he couldn’t get pay for 
her, she should be taken home immediately. He knew 
that I was attached to the child, and supposed that we 
would yield to his demands rather than part with her. 
His threat was put in execution, and the weeping little 
'jirl was taken back to her former wretched home. 


one’s neighbors. 


191 


It is proverbial that one’s neighbors have an accurate 
knowledge of one’s domestic affairs. Our neighbors 
had remarked the transformation of the little “ cold- 
victual girl ” into a neatly-dressed, merry-looking* at¬ 
tendant. They had become acquainted with the his¬ 
tory of the mother and the ungracious conduct of the 
father. His ingratitude was a theme constantly dis¬ 
cussed. I was, of course, duly pitied for having had 
any thing to do with such a man; and the little I had 
accomplished for the child was greatly exaggerated, 
and lauded about ten times as much as it deserved 
to be. 

The remark of a seamstress, who was sewing for our 
opposite neighbors, was repeated to a domestic of mine. 
“If Mrs. Mowatt is fond of children, and cares any 
thing about poor people,” said the seamstress, “ I wish 
somebody would tell her of the Greys, an English fam¬ 
ily, who are living in Harlem. They are people that 
have seen better days ; but the father is blind. There 
are several children, — one of them a sweet little girl, a 
much finer child than that Esther, — and they are actu¬ 
ally starving.” 

This speech was communicated to me. It did not 
make any particular impression at the time ; but the 
next day the words kept coming into my head again and 
again, and I could not help wondering whether the 
Greys really were starving — whether any thing could 
be done for them — whether I should not like the little 
girl in Esther’s place, &c., &c. Very soon I could 
think of nothing else — the Greys were always in 
my mind. I could not sleep without dreaming of them, 
or wake without longing to know something of their his¬ 
tory. I could not interest myself in my usual occupa- 


192 


AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF AN ACTRESS. 


tions. I was thoroughly idle, restless, and uncomfort¬ 
able. 

Two days passed thus, and on the third I came to the 
conclusion that I would drive to Harlem. I was seldom 
allowed to venture out at all in very cold weather. 
This was a much longer drive than I was considered 
able to taketherefore I said nothing of my determi¬ 
nation to Mr. Mo watt. I knew he would object on the 
plea of my health. As soon as I was left alone, I de¬ 
spatched a message to our opposite neighbor, requesting 
that she would send me the address of the Greys. The 
answer returned was that the seaipstress who had 
spoken of them had gone home. She had said that 
they lived somewhere in Harlem, and that a Mr. 

G-n, who kept a hotel there, knew all about them, 

and could answer for their respectability. She knew 
nothing of the people herself. 

This was information scanty enough, but in my rest¬ 
less and excited state of mind it sufficed. I sent for a 
carriage, and told the coachman to drive to Harlem, and 
stop at the first hotel. The carriage stopped after what 
seemed to my impatience a very long drive. “ Is Mr. 

G-n the proprietor of this hotel ? ” was the inquiry 

made to the waiter, who, with an air of great empresse- 
ment , opened the carriage door. 

“ No, ma’am.” 

“ Do you know what hotel in Harlem he keeps ? ” 

The answer was also in the negative. We drove to 
another hotel, and still another, but at both the exist¬ 
ence of any Mr. G-n was ignored. At a fourth 

the proprietor himself chanced to be standing on the 
piazza. In answer to the usual question, he somewhat 
pompously proclaimed his own proprietorship, and offered 
to hand me out of the carriage. 





SEARCH FOR THE GREYS. 


193 


“ I wish you could tell me what hotel Mr. G-n 

keeps ; I am very anxious to find it out,” 1 said to him 
in a somewhat appealing manner, for I was beginning 
to get discouraged. 

“I know all the hotels hereabouts, and there’s no 

Mr. G-n keeps any of them. You’ll find mine as 

good as the best of them, ma’am.” 

“ It is Mr. G-n himself I want. Do you know 

any person in Harlem of that name ? ” 

“ There’s an individual that keeps a place where they 

sell spirits , and his name is G-n ; but I don’t suppose 

that’s what the lady wants,” replied the man, with so 
decidedly insolent an expression that it took some cour¬ 
age to address him again. 

“ Be so good as to give my coachman the direction,” 
I managed to reply. I was becoming tremblingly alive 
to the folly of my expedition. 

After a rude stare, and an evident inclination to 
indulge me with some further remarks, — probably upon 
the eccentricity of my tastes and conduct, — the man 
obeyed. 

We drove to “ the place where spirits were sold.” 

Mr. G-n lived there, but was not at home. I sent 

for Mrs. G-n. She also was out. The message 

was brought by a little girl about eight or nine years 
old. 

“ Is there not any body in the house to whom I can 
speak ? ” I inquired of her. 

“ Only me — every body is out.” 

“Does your father know the Greys, an English 
family, who live somewhere in Harlem ? ” 

“ Is it the blind Mr. Grey ? ” 

“ Yes, I believe he’s blind.” 

13 








194 


AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF AN ACTRESS. 


“ O, we know him, and Mrs. Grey, and the children.” 

“ Are they poor ? ” 

The little girl laughed, as though she already under¬ 
stood the distinction between rich and poor, and replied, 
“ Well, I guess they be ! ” 

I asked her to tell the coachman where they lived. I 
never expected him to find the place when I heard her 
puzzling direction of, “ After you turn the corner, you 
go to the right — then down to the left — then take the 
first street,” &c., &c., but he did find it without much 
difficulty. The house — or shanty , as it might more 
properly be called — stood back some distance from the 
road. The snow lay on the ground at least a foot deep. 
There was no pathway through it to the door. The 
coachman, who was accustomed to drive me, begged 
that I would sit still until he had trampled it down to 
form a narrow path. I then alighted, and he remained 
with his horses. No answer came to my repeated 
knockings at the street door. I opened it, and went in. 
I knocked at the first door within — no answer. I 
opened it — the room was empty both of furniture and 
inhabitants. I tried room after room, but with the 
same result. 

While I was still searching, a large dog started from 
some unnoticed corner and leaped upon me, as though 
to be caressed. This was the first sign of life that I 
beheld. I made friends with the dog, as the best means 
of self-defence. After playing about me in a manner 
which seemed a dumb welcome, he ran to a sort of outer 
building, — so I think it was, — and I followed. Here 
he scratched at the door, and I thought it advisable to 
knock. 

“ Come in,” said the voice of a man. 


MR. GREY. 


195 


I entered a room where poverty had undisputed 
reign. The floor was bare — scarcely an article of fur¬ 
niture was to be seen. In the centre of the room stood 
a small stove; but the fire had quite died out, though it 
was a piercingly cold day. In front of the stove lay a 
little boy, half naked, and shivering with the cold. 
Upon a small wooden box sat a baby, strapped by its 
waist to the back of a chair. Beside them, so close to 
the stove that his clothes must have burned had there 
been any fire within, sat their father. 

“ Can you tell me if Mr. Grey lives here ? ” I asked, 
on entering. 

The man rose with a kind of dignity that I did not 
look for in so rude a place, and bowing, answered, “ My 
name is Grey.” 

He advanced to find*me a chair, but with uncertain 
steps, and one hand extended as though feeling his way. 
By his movement only could one have divined that he , 
was blind. His eyes were large, of a clear, light blue, 
and did not seem to me wholly expressionless. He was 
tall, well made, and handsome, in spite of the traces of 
suffering upon his countenance. I could not but notice 
the courtesy of his manner as he bowed on offering me 
the seat. I entered into conversation with him — his 
language was not that of an uneducated man. I drew 
from him his history, though he was evidently inclined 
to be reserved. He had been cheated by his partner 
while conducting a prosperous business, either in Eng¬ 
land or Ireland, I forget which. The partner had ab¬ 
sconded, and Mr. Grey, totally ruined, had brought his 
family to America, in the hope of almost “ digging gold 
in the streets.” Shortly after his arrival in New York, 
his eyes began to trouble him, and he soon became so 


/ 


196 AUTOBIOGRAPHY OP AN ACTRESS. 

blind that he could barely distinguish light from dark¬ 
ness. His wife had tried to get work; sometimes she 
obtained a little sewing, sometimes a little washing, but 
often she could get no employment at all. They had no 

friend but Mr. G-n, who had known them “ in the old 

country.” He had been very kind, but he had a family 
of his own. Had he not helped them, they must have 
starved. I inquired for Mr. Grey’s wife. She was out, 
and his little daughter Margaret was also absent. He 
hoped they would “ bring back something to make the 
fire burn — this winter weather was so hard upon the 
little boys.” I looked upon the baby faces turned won- 
deringly to mine — they were blue with cold. 

I could not ask whether his wife was gathering chips 
for the fire, or whether she was endeavoring to obtain 
money to purchase fuel; there was something about the 
bearing of the man that would have made any one 
guarded in running the risk of wounding his feelings. 
I told him that, if I liked his little girl, I might take her 
to live with me; then gave him my address, and ex¬ 
pressed a desire that his wife would call the next day 
with the child. 

I returned home just in time to prevent alarm at my 
long absence. Had the result of the expedition been 
different, I should have regarded it as Quixotic — Dor- 
casina-ish in the extreme. 

The next morning brought Mrs. Grey and her little 
daughter. The former did not impress me so favorably 
as her husband, but the sweet face of the child, with its 
large, blue, frightened eyes, won spontaneous interest. 
She was nine years old, but small for her age, and thin 
almost to emaciation. Her fair hair fell in disordered 
masses to her waist. Her features were pinched and 



MARGARET. 


197 


6harp, and she had that look of quiet suffering which it 
is so painful to behold in the countenance of childhood. 

The mother joyfully consented to leave little Marga¬ 
ret with me. It was arranged that the family should 
remove from Harlem to New York to more comfortable 
apartments. The influence of my friends could readily 
procure for her work or needful assistance. 

The mother departed, and the little girl, with her 
piteous expression of face, stood trembling at my knee. 
She seemed almost heart-broken when her mother kissed 
her for good by, but she dared not cry — ill usage had 
so thoroughly crushed her spirit that it seemed to have 
deprived her of the childish relief of tears. Of that 
brutal usage we had ample proof when her tattered gar¬ 
ments were removed. Her fragile person was literally 
covered with blue and yellow bruises — the consequence 
of severe blows. These had not been received from 
her parents, — so she told me, — but from one to whom 
poverty had forced them to intrust her. Though it was 
December, her garments were but three in number, and 
of summer-suited materials. 

Busy fingers plied their needles that day — some of 
them more used to the pen than the needle, but retain¬ 
ing a feminine affection for the latter. A little girl sat 
by the fire that evening, bending towards the genial 
heat as though she were making a new acquaintance. 
In her neat blue dress and white bib, with her fair hair 
smoothed and cut, it was only in the painful expression 
of her face that the little Margaret of the morning could 
be recognized. Her countenance still wore a look of 
strange apprehension. It was months before it lost that 
mournful expression — many months before I ever saw 
her smile. The first time I heard her sing, I had noise- 




198 AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF AN ACTRESS. 

lessly entered the room where she was at work. Her 
voice gushed out rich and clear as the song of a bird. 
She gave a start of terror when she saw me, and, on my 
bidding her sing on, burst into tears. The child of nine 
years old was already a sceptic to the existence of 
kindness. 

But I must shorten my narrative of the Greys. 
Little Margaret remained with us, beloved and learning 
to love. Her parents and infant brothers removed to 
New York. Medical aid failed to restore the father’s 
sight. The mother worked incessantly to support her 
little family, but had a bitter struggle with poverty. 
In less than a year from the day when I wandered 
through the empty house at Harlem, and was guided 
by a dog to the back building where the blind man sat, 
all that was mortal of him was lying in a coffin. In 
four weeks more another coffin entered the room from 
which his mortal remains had been removed, and Mar¬ 
garet and her brothers were weeping over the corpse of 
their mother. 

They had two elder sisters, but neither in circum¬ 
stances to provide for the little orphans. The elder 
boy, John, a gentle, delicate little fellow of about six 
years old, was evidently ill. His disease was the same 
that his mother’s had been — inflammation of the lungs. 
That he should be instantly cared for was imperative; 
and we took him home to nurse. One of the neighbors 
to the Greys took charge of little Willie. The elder 
boy was ill for nearly two months, but so patient and 
docile that he gave but little trouble. He sometimes 
had to be left alone for hours; but we always found 
him either singing merrily, or with his toys and picture 
books laid on the bed beside him, and always happy. 


WILLIE. 


199 


When the pale, feeble little fellow began to wander 
about the house, he was in nobody’s way, but even tried 
to make himself useful, and share his sister’s light 
duties. 

I used to send Margaret on a weekly visit of inquiry 
after the youngest child. One day she returned, sob¬ 
bing so loudly that I heard her before she entered the 
room where I was sitting. “ My little brother! little 
Willie! poor little Willie!” was all that she could 
say. 

At first I thought the child was dead, and reproached 
myself for having bestowed so little care upon him. 
As soon as Margaret could speak, she told me that he 
had been ill with the measles, and was just recovering; 
but the people where he was staying said they could be 
burdened with him no longer. They had arranged to 
send him that very day to the Orphan Asylum. 

The weeping child ended her tale with “ Don’t let 
him go ! let me bring him here! Only let me bring 
him here for a little while! ” 

Her grief was so persuasive that I could not resist 
her entreaties. An hour after, she came into the room 
again, staggering under the weight of the little boy in 
her arms — but this time her face was covered with 
smiles. 

Willie was about two years old, an apple dumpling¬ 
shaped, rosy-cheeked little boy, who could just toddle 
about and prattle in an unintelligible language. I had 
no intention of keeping him — no fixed intention to¬ 
wards the children at all. They were quiet, manage¬ 
able, and winning. Mr. Mowatt took a ready interest 
in them. They grew into his affections as rapidly as 
into mine. They were my pupils; and if they added 


200 


AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF AN ACTRESS. 


much to my cares, they contributed as largely to my 
joys. Little by little they became an acknowledged 
part of our small household. At first we anticipated 
finding some person or persons who would like to adopt 
the two boys. No such party sprang up, and the idea 
was tacitly abandoned — or rather, it was gradually 
forgotten. 

When new reverses caused me to enter a profession, 
the children found protection for a short period in the 
homes of my sisters. Mr. Mowatt went through the 
necessary forms, and became their legal guardian. Be¬ 
fore we sailed for Europe, a highly respectable family 
in Connecticut, the state of steady habits, received the 
two boys as boarders, and treated them as tenderly as 
though they had been their own children. The lads 
attended day school regularly, and prospered in all 
ways. They have remained at Greenfield Hill until 
this period, and are now a couple of fine, frank, 
truehearted boys, who have repaid by their gratitude 
and good conduct all the care and love that have been 
bestowed upon them. 

Three miles distant from the residence of the boys, 
little Margaret was placed at school with a family 
equally excellent, equally kind, with that to which we 
intrusted her brothers. When I returned from Eng¬ 
land, four years afterwards, — returned alone, — I could 
scarcely believe that the tall, graceful girl who threw 
herself into my arms, weeping with joy, was the tiny 
Margaret I had left. I could not help seeing, in thought, 
the bruised, emaciated child, who, shivering with cold 
and fear, stood before me on that memorable December 
morning. I felt that she was Heaven-intrusted to my 
care. If her maturer womanhood fulfil the promise 
of her girlhood, I have nothing more to ask. 


UNEXPECTED INTELLIGENCE. 


201 


I must not close the history of these children without 
relating a rather singular circumstance in connection 
with them. Until quite recently, I knew nothing of 
their parentage but what I have related above. The 

Rev. Mr. A-e, visiting Greenfield, where the boys 

are living, noticed the children, and inquired who they 
were. To his surprise, he found that their parents had 
belonged to the parish in Harlem of which he was 
pastor. He had baptized little Willie. He had been 

informed by the Mr. G-n, after whom I had made 

such a singular search, that they were of good family, 
had wealthy bachelor uncles, with other particulars that 
may at some future day be advantageous to the children, 
but which I have taken no pains as yet to authenticate. 




CHAPTER XI. 


Fashion. — Original of Adam Trueman. — Fashion accepted by the 
Park Theatre. — Interview with Mr. Barry. — Witnessing a first 
Rehearsal unseen. — First Night of Fashion. — Success. — Second 
Rehearsal. — Author's Benefit. — Fashion produced at Philadel¬ 
phia. — Invitations from Managers of Walnut Street Theatre. — 
Their Liberality and Courtesy. — Witnessing Performance in 
Philadelphia. — Demand for the Author. — Failure of Mr. 
Mowatt. — Proposition that I should adopt the Stage. — A 
Change of Views. — Refections. — Mary Howitt on the Members 
of the Profession. — A Determination. — My Father's Consent. 
— Contract with Mr. C -. — Useless Remonstrances. 

“Why do you not write a play?” said E. S - to 

me one morning. “ You have more decided talent for the 
stage than for any thing else. If we can get it ac¬ 
cepted by the Park Theatre, and if it should succeed, 
you have a new and wide field of exertion opened to 
you — one in which success is very rare, but for which 
your turn of mind has particularly fitted you.” 

“ What shall I attempt, comedy or tragedy ? ” 

“ Comedy, decidedly; because you can only write 
what you feel, and you are ‘ nothing if not critical ’ — 
besides, you will have a fresh channel for the sarcastic 
• ebullitions with which you so constantly indulge us.” 

It was true that at that period of my life a vein of 
sarcasm, developed by the trials through which I had 
passed, pervaded all my thoughts, and betrayed itself 
in much that I wrote as well as in conversation. E. 

S-’s suggestion appeared to me good, and I com 

( 202 ) 




FASHION. 


203 


menced Fashion. If it is a satire on American parve - 
nuism , it was intended to be a good-humored one. No 
charge can be more untrue than that with which I have 
been taxed through the press and in private — the 
accusation of having held up to ridicule well-known 
personages. The character of Mrs. Tiffany was not 
drawn from any one individual, but was intended as the 
type of a certain class. The only character in the play 
which was sketched from life was that of the 'blunt, 
warmhearted old farmer. I was told that the original 
was seen in the pit vociferously applauding Adam True¬ 
man’s strictures on fashionable society. It was not very 
wonderful that his sentiments found an echo in my 
friend’s bosom. I longed to ask the latter whether he 
recognized his own portrait; but we have never met 
since the likeness was taken. 

There were no attempts in Fashion at fine writing. 

I designed the play wholly as an acting comedy. A 
dramatic , not a literary, success was what I desired to 
achieve. Caution suggested my not aiming at both at 
once. 

Fashion was offered to the Park Theatre. In the 
usual course of events, its fate would have been to gather 
dust amongst an ever-increasing pile of manuscripts 
on Mr. Simpson’s table — heaps of rejected plays, 
heaps of plays, the merits of which were never even in¬ 
vestigated. It generally takes several months to induce 
a manager to read a new play — several months more t 
before he consents to its production. Making an ex¬ 
ception to prove this rule, Mr. Simpson read Fashion 
at once. He liked it, and handed the manuscript to his 
stage manager, Mr. Barry, who also approved, and pro¬ 
nounced that the play would mak^a hit. 


204 


AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF AN ACTRESS. 


A few days more, and I received official information 
that Fashion was accepted by the Park Theatre — that 
it would be produced without delay, and in a style of great 
magnificence — also, that I would receive an author’s 
benefit on the third night, and a certain per centage of 
the nightly receipts of the theatre for every performance 
of the play after it had run a stipulated number of 
nights. 

On listening to this intelligence, I very quietly asked 
myself whether I was awake. It took some time, and 
needed some practical experiments upon my own sensi¬ 
bilities, before I could feel assured that I was not enjoy¬ 
ing a pleasant dream. I was almost too much surprised 
to be elated. 

It was necessary that I should call on Mr. Barry, to 
hear his suggestions concerning the casting of the play 
and certain slight alterations. I did so, and listened 
with seeming attention to his laying down of dramatic 
law ; but I was in a state of agreeable bewilderment 
through the whole interview. When I rose to leave, 
and received his very patronizing congratulations on 
having written a “ remarkable play,” I could not help 
fancying that he was saying to himself, “ What a silly 
little soul it is ! ” Indeed, I half expected that he was 
going to pat me on the head and commend me for my 
“ smartness.” The impression I left upon his mind was 
certainly not that I was a very formidable or a very 
brilliant character. 

The play was at once announced and put in rehearsal. 
The day before its representation I became anxious to 
witness one of these rehearsals, that I might form some 
idea of the chances of success. It is an author’s priv¬ 
ilege to attend the rehearsals of his own production, his 


WITNESSING A REHEARSAL. 


205 


acknowledged seat being at the manager’s table, upon 
the stage. He is also at liberty to make suggestions to 
the actors explanatory of his ideas — though, as a gen¬ 
eral rule, he finds they understand what he intended 
much better than he does himself; at least, they po¬ 
litely assure him that such is the case. Of these cus¬ 
toms, I was too uncertain of success to avail myself. I 
preferred to overlook the mysterious doings from a pri¬ 
vate box, unseen by the actors. 

Rehearsal was just commencing, when Mr. Mowatt 
and myself were introduced by Mr. Blake (for many 
years boxkeeper of the Park Theatre) into the theatre. 
The whole front of the building was so dark that we 
had to feel our way, stumbling over benches and chairs, 
until we succeeded in gaining our seats. 

The stage was lighted by a single branch of gas, 
shooting up to the height of several feet in the centre 
of the footlights. It sent forth a dim, blue, spectral 
light, that gave a phantom-like appearance to surround¬ 
ing objects. On the right of the stage was the prompt¬ 
er’s table — on the left, the manager’s table. Beneath 
the ghastly light sat a palefaced prompter, with the 
manuscript of Fashion in his hand. At his side stood the 
“ call boy,” a child of about ten years of age. He held 
a long strip of paper, somewhat resembling the tailors’ 
bills of young spendthrifts, as they are represented on 
the stage. This was the “ call ” for the actors, and 
directed him which to summon from the greenroom. 

The rehearsal of Fashion had begun. It was sin¬ 
gular to see these kings and queens of the stage, 
whom I had been accustomed to behold decked in gold- 
embroidered robes and jewelled crowns, glittering in 
the full blaze of the footlights — now moving about in 


206 


AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF AN ACTRESS. 


this “ visible darkness,” some of the men in “ shocking 
bad hats” and rough overcoats, and the ladies in modern 
bonnets in place of tiaras or wreaths of flowers, and 
mantles and warm cloaks instead of peasant petticoats 
or brocade trains. I found it difficult to recognize the 
romantic heroes and injured heroines in whose suffer¬ 
ings I had so often sympathized. 

Every actor held his part, to which he constantly 
referred. It gave me an odd sensation to hear my own 
language uttered in all varieties of tones, and often con¬ 
veying a meaning of which I did not suppose it to be 
susceptible. But I soon discovered that a rehearsal was 
a very serious affair. There was no laughing, except 
now and then at the situations of the play, — at which, 
by the by, I was particularly flattered, — no talking, 
except in reference to the business of the scene, and 
now and then a remark from some critical malcontent, 
which was never intended for the author’s ears. There 
are two dances in the fourth act of Fashion, and these 
were gone through with a business-like gravity that was 
alarming. While witnessing this solemn rehearsal, I 
began to fancy I had made a mistake, and unconsciously 
written a tragedy. Rehearsal lasted several hours. 
At its close, when we stumbled through the dark pas¬ 
sage into the box office, and stood once more in the 
light of day, it seemed to me again as though I had 
been dreaming. But the dream was a very sober one, 
and while it lasted I received a lesson upon the “ vanity 
of human wishes.” Of the probable success of the play 
I could not form the faintest idea. 

The next night Fashion was produced. With an 
anxious heart I took my seat in the same private box 
from which I had overlooked the gloomy rehearsal on 


PROLOGUE TO FASHION. 


207 


the day previous. What a different aspect every thing 
wore ! The theatre flooded with light, the gay decora¬ 
tions, the finely-painted drop curtain, the boxes filled 
with beautiful women, the dense crowd in the pit and 
galleries, the inspiring music, — all seemed the effect of 
some Scottish glamour rather than a reality. 

The music ceased. The gentleman who was to per¬ 
sonate the Count in the comedy appeared before the 
curtain and delivered a prologue, written by Epes Sar¬ 
gent. It was a capital prologue — one calculated to put 
an audience in good humor; and thus it took the first 
gigantic step towards insuring the success of the play. 
I subjoin it, though much of its effect necessarily de¬ 
pends on an appropriate delivery and stage action: — 


PROLOGUE. 

(Enter a Gentleman, reading a Newspaper.) 

“ * Fashion , a Comedy .’ I’ll go ; but stay — 

Now I read farther, ’tis a native play! 

Bah! homemade calicoes are well enough, 

But homemade dramas must be stupid stuff. 

Had it the London stamp, ’twould do — but then, 

For plays, we lack the manners and the men! ” 

Thus speaks one critic. Hear another’s creed: — 

“ * Fashion ! ’ What’s here ? (Reads.) It never can succeed ! 
What! from a woman’s pen ? It takes a man 
To write a comedy — no woman can.” 

Well, sir, and what say you, and why that frown ? 

His eyes uprolled, he lays the paper down: — 

“ Here ! take,” he says, “ the unclean thing away ! 

’Tis tainted with the notice of a play ! ” 

But, sir ! — but, gentlemen! — you, sir, who think 
No comedy can flow from native ink,— 

Are we such perfect monsters, or such dull , 

That Wit no traits for ridicule can cull ? 

Have we no follies here to be redressed ? 

No vices gibbeted ? no crimes confessed ? 


208 


AUTOBIOGRAPHY OP AN ACTRESS. 


“ But then a female hand can’t lay the lash on! ” 

How know you that, sir, when the theme is Fashion ? 

And now, come forth, thou man of sanctity ! 

How shall I venture a reply to thee ? 

The Stage — what is it, though beneath thy ban, 

But a daguerreotype of life and man ? 

Arraign poor human nature, if you will, 

But let the Drama have her mission still; 

Let her, with honest purpose, still reflect 
The faults which keeneyed Satire may detect. 

For there be men who fear not an hereafter, 

Yet tremble at the hell of public laughter ! 

Friends, from these scoffers we appeal to you ! 

Condemn the false, but 0, applaud the true. 

Grant that some wit may grow on native soil, 

And Art’s fair fabric rise from woman’s toil. 

While we exhibit but to reprehend 
The social vices, ’tis for you to mend! 

The audience applauded, as was expected of them, 
the prologue ended, and the curtain rose. 

The cast of the play was exceedingly strong — so 
admirable that when, upon the falling of the curtain 
after the fifth act, an unequivocally brilliant success had 
been achieved, I was forced to admit that my laurels 
were not of my own earning. It would have been diffi¬ 
cult for a play to fail with such acting as Chippendale’s. 
».n his striking delineation of Adam Trueman, Mrs. 
Knight’s, in her irresistibly comic personation of Pru¬ 
dence, Fisher’s as Snobson, Crisp’s as the Count, Mr. 
Barry’s as Mr. Tiffany, Dyott’s as Colonel Howard, De 
Walden’s as Mr. Twinkle, J. Howard’s as Fogg, Sker- 
rett’s as Zeke, Miss Ellis’s as Gertrude, Mrs. Barry’s 
as Mrs. Tiffany, Miss Horn’s as Seraphina, Mrs. Dyott’s 
as Millinette. 

The play was announced for repetition every night, 
and the audience loudly testified their approbation. 


SECOND REHEARSAL. 


209 


The day after the performance of a new drama, it is 
customary to call a rehearsal, for the sake of “ cutting ” 
the play, if too long, (and almost all plays are too long 
as originally written,) and to make other necessary 
alterations. To this rehearsal I was formally invited 
by the managers. Accompanied by Mr. Mowatt, I 
gladly attended. On that day, for the first time, I crossed 
the stage of a theatre. I was conducted to a seat at 
the manager’s table. 

The theatre had undergone its transformation again. 
All was darkness and silence. The solitary gas-branch 
burned as blue and ghastly as ever, and the actors, in 
their every-day dresses, moved mysteriously about in 
its shadowy light. But on nearer view they looked 
like weary and care-laden human beings, instead of 
phantoms. 

Again the rehearsal of Fashion commenced. Mr. 
Barry arranged the “ cuts,” requesting my approval in 
a manner which left me very little alternative. The 
principal actors were presented to me, and I made as 
many delicate hints concerning certain misinterpretations 
of the text as I dared venture upon. It was very evi¬ 
dent that they singly and collectively entertained the 
opinion that an author never knew the true meaning of 
his own words. His suppositions to the contrary were 
mere hallucinations. 

Fashion was repeated again that night. The next 
was the one appointed for my benefit. On the occasion, 
the house was literally crammed from pit to dome. 
Owing to the judicious cutting, the performance was 
more rapid than on the first night, and went off with 
even greater spirit. At the falling of the curtain, there 
was a call for the author. This I had anticipated, and 
14 


210 


AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF AN ACTRESS. 


instead of bowing from a private box, according to the 
established usage, I sent Mr. Barry a few lines expres¬ 
sive of my thanks, and desired him to deliver them be¬ 
fore the curtain. “Mr. Barry then came forward,” 
(said one of the newspapers, the next morning,) “ and 
spoke as follows : ” — 

. “ Ladies and Gentlemen : I am commissioned by Mrs. Mowatt 
to offer to you her sincere and most grateful acknowledgments for 
the favor with which you have received this comedy. She desires 
me to express the hope that you will take it rather as an earnest of 
what she may hereafter do than as a fair specimen of what Ameri¬ 
can dramatic literature ought to be. (Loud applause.) With your 
permission, ladies and gentlemen, I will announce the comedy of 
Fashion every night until further notice.” {Loud and continued 
applause .) 

The audience were satisfied, and I was spared the 
necessity of making probably an awkward acknowledg¬ 
ment in person. 

On the night of this benefit I sent to each of the 
ladies engaged in the play a trifling remembrance of 
the occasion. A note, acknowledging my indebtedness 
to the whole company for their admirable personations, 
was addressed to Mr. Barry. This was framed and 
hung by him in the greenroom. 

Fashion was played nightly to full houses for three 
weeks, and only withdrawn to make room for “ stars ” 
who were engaged before its production. 

During the run of the play in New York, it was pro¬ 
duced in Philadelphia, at the Walnut Street Theatre, 
under the management of E. A. Marshall, Esq., the 
stage manager being W. Rufus Blake, Esq. Its suc¬ 
cess was as brilliant as in New York. The managers 
sent a pressing invitation to Mr. Mowatt and myself to 
visit Philadelphia and witness the representation. We 


FASHION IN PHILADELPHIA. 


211 


accepted, and were entertained by them for three days, 
at one of the first hotels, in the most courteous manner. 
Our suite of apartments were the best that could be 
procured — our table was sumptuously provided, and a 
carriage stood always at the door, at our disposal. The 
conduct of these gentlemen deserves particular mention, 
for there are few managers who would feel called upon 
to testify their indebtedness to an author in a style so 
generous and complimentary. A play may enrich a 
theatre; yet, as a general rule, the manager ignores the 
existence of the author, except so far as his contract is 
concerned. 

The representation of Fashion, in Philadelphia, af¬ 
forded us unqualified pleasure. It was difficult, or 
rather impossible, to decide whether the play was pro¬ 
duced with greater eclat and more magnificent stage 
appointments at the Walnut or at the Park Theatre. 
The cast, too, was equally strong at both theatres! 
W. Rufus Blake, one of the most gifted of the pathetic 
and comic “ old men ” of the stage, enacted Adam True¬ 
man. Mrs. Thayer was drollness personified in Pru¬ 
dence. Wheatly as the Count, Fredericks as Mr. Tif¬ 
fany, Chapman as Snobson, Young as Zeke, Mrs. Jones 
as Mrs. Tiffany, Miss Alexina Fisher as Gertrude, 
Miss Susan Cushman as Seraphina, and Mrs. Blake as 
Millinette, could not be surpassed even by their con¬ 
temporaries of the Park. 

We were accompanied to the theatre by Mr. and 
Mrs. Mason — the charming Emma Wheatly of Park 
Theatre memory. Our box was furnished with white 
satin bills, printed in letters of gold. At the close of 
the play the actors were all called before the curtain. 
Then rose shouts for the author. The audience had 


212 


AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF AN ACTRESS. 


become aware that she was in the theatre. If I had 
reflected on the subject, I should have expected this 
summons; as it was, I chanced to be wholly unpre¬ 
pared, and the unlooked-for demonstration affected me 
unpleasantly. Our party were seated in the first tier, 
and exposed to the full gaze of the audience, who now 
turned themselves en masse towards us. The shouts 
continued, and Mr. Mowatt and Mr. Mason entreated 
me to rise and courtesy. I could not muster courage, 
and felt much more inclined to make a cowardly escape. 
The audience grew more vociferous at the delay. 

“ There is no use of refusing; you will be obliged to 
rise,” whispered Mrs. Mason. 

I saw she was right, and answered, “ I will, if you 
rise also and courtesy with me.” 

She objected at first, but finding that I would not 
move, and that the shouts were only redoubled, she 
amiably consented. We rose together, and were greeted 
with prolonged cheering. I court-esied several times, 
but was not sufficiently self-possessed to notice whether 
she did the same. This ceremony over, we took our 
departure as rapidly as possible. I little thought that, 
in less than two months, I should courtesy to an audi¬ 
ence from the stage of that very theatre. 

At the door of the theatre we were met by the mana¬ 
gers, who requested that I would allow them to conduct 
me behind the scenes, and present the members of the 
company. This was another unexpected trial of my 
nerves, for I had not overcome a certain feeling of awe 
towards stage heroes and heroines, but I could not with 
any degree of graciousness - refuse. We passed through 
a private entrance leading from the boxes. The green 
curtain was down — the stage represented a drawing 


BEHIND THE SCENES. 


213 


room in the house of Mr. Tiffany — the actors were 
ranged in a semicircle, awaiting us. They were pre¬ 
sented in turn, and I exchanged, or tried to exchange, 
a few words with each of the ladies; but I fancy that 
my remarks were not particularly sensible, or much to 
the purpose. The impromptu introduction, and the 
novelty of my situation, had confused my ideas, and it 
is very probable that I commented on the excessive 
heat when every one stood shivering around me. 

The next day, however, I hope the remembrance of 
my awkwardness and embarrassment was effaced from 
the minds of the ladies in question, for I sent them 
each a gold pencil in token of my appreciation of their 
efforts. 

“ Do you not feel proud ? ” inquired a friend of me. 

I answered with perfect sincerity, “ Perhaps I should, 
if the acting of Fashion had not been so very excellent 
that the author has only a secondary share of the gen¬ 
eral success.” 

The secret of that success was, that Fashion is, 
strictly speaking, an “ acting play,” and, placed in the 
hands of an accomplished company, the characters were 
re-created. An amount of interest was thus kept alive 
which so simple a plot could not legitimately awaken. 

Edgar A. Poe, one of my sternest critics, wrote of 
Fashion, that it resembled the School for Scandal in 
the same degree that the shell of a locust resembles the 
living locust. If his severity were but justice , it must 
be that the spirits of the performers infused themselves 
into the empty shell, and produced a very effective coun¬ 
terfeit of life. 

After three most delightful days we bade adieu to 
our manager hosts, and returned to New York. 


214 


AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF AN ACTRESS. 


The publishing business, in which Mr. Mowatt was 
engaged, had for some time been unsuccessful. Just at 
this period he failed, and became involved in greater 
difficulties than ever. 

The success of Fashion had attracted the attention 
of managers. Again I received propositions to go upon 
the stage, coupled with the assurance that I would rap¬ 
idly acquire an independence. The day had come when 
all things seemed to work together to force me of ne¬ 
cessity to contemplate this step. 

My health was still variable, and I had not yet 
wholly rcovered from the effects of long illness. I had 
always intended to resume public readings when I grew 
sufficiently strong. Nearly double the amount of phy¬ 
sique was needed for a night’s reading than was re¬ 
quired for the performance of a light part in a five-act 
drama. 

My views concerning the stage, and my estimate of 
the members of dramatic companies, had undergone a 
total revolution. Many circumstances had proved to 
me how unfounded were the prejudices of the world 
against the profession as a body. The communication 
into which I had been brought, by the production of 
Fashion, with the managers and members of the Park 
company and the managers of the Walnut Street Thea¬ 
tre, added to all I heard of their private histories, con¬ 
vinced me that I had formed unjust conclusions. Rather, 
I had adopted the conclusions of those who were as 
ignorant on the subject as myself—who, perhaps, cared 
as little as I had done to ascertain the truth. 

My after experiences taught me that truer words 
concerning the stage were never written than those of 
Mary Howitt which preface her memoir of me. Re- 


MARY HOWITT ON THE DRAMA. 


215 


ferrmg ro the members of the profession with whom 
she has become acquainted, she says, — 

“ Our readers need not be told that we consider the 
stage as capable of becoming one of the great means 
of human advancement and improvement, and for this 
reason it is that we especially rejoice to see amongst its 
A ornaments men and women not only of surpassing tal¬ 
ent and genius, but, which is far higher and much rarer, 
of high moral character and even deep religious feel¬ 
ing. Let not the so called religious world start at this 
assertion ; we know what we say, and we fearlessly 
assert that there is many a poor, despised player, whose 
Christian graces of faith, patience, charity, and self- 
denial put to shame the vaunted virtues of the proud 
pharisee ; nor are they always the purest who talk most 
about purity. 

“ Welcome, then, and doubly welcome, be all such re¬ 
formers as come amongst us not only with the high 
argument of their own pure and blameless lives, but 
who, having passed through suffering and trial, know 
experimentally how to teach, and who teach, through 
the persuasive power of genius, and the benign influ¬ 
ence of a noble womanly spirit.” 

These lines had not then been written, but they ap¬ 
ply to many a woman, whom I have known, who bears 
the too often contemptuously uttered name of “ actress; ” 
women who, with hearts full of anguish, nightly prac¬ 
tise forgetfulness of self, and of their private sorrows, to 
earn their bread by delighting a public who misjudges 
them. 

I pondered long and seriously upon the consequences 
of my entering the profession. The “ qu’en dira 
t’on ? ” of Society had no longer the power to awe me. 



216 


AUTOBIOGRAPHY OP AN ACTRESS. 


Was it right ? was it wrong ? were questions of higher 
moment. My respect for the' opinions of “ Mrs. 
Grundy” had slowly melted away since I discovered 
that, with that respectable representative of the world 
in general, success sanctified all things ; nothing was re¬ 
prehensible but failure. 

I should never have adopted the stage as a matter 
of expediency alone, however great the temptation. 
What I did was not done lightly and irresponsibly. I 
reviewed my whole past life, and saw, that, from earli¬ 
est childhood, my tastes, studies, pursuits had all com¬ 
bined to fit me for this end. I had exhibited a passion 
for dramatic performances when I was little more than 
an infant. I had played plays before I ever entered a 
theatre. I had written plays from the time that I first 
witnessed a performance. My love for the drama was 
genuine, for it was developed at a period when the 
theatre was an unknown place, and actors a species of 
mythical creatures. I determined to fulfil the destiny 
which seemed visibly pointed out by the unerring finger 
of Providence in all the circumstances, associations, and 
vicissitudes of my fife, in my intellectual tastes and 
habits, and the sympathies of my emotional nature. I 
would become an actress. 

Mr. Mowatt’s appreciation of the drama was, I think, 
even greater than my own. My wishes met with a 
ready response from him. His only fear was, that I 
had not physical strength to endure the excitement and 
fatigue of an arduous vocation. This had to be tested. 

The consent of one other person was all I required ; 
it was that of my father. I had not courage person¬ 
ally to communicate my intentions. Mr. Mowatt, in a 
private interview with him, explained the state of his 


MY FATHER. 


217 


own affairs, the theatrical propositions I had received, 
and my resolves, should these resolutions meet with his 
sanction. After they had conversed for some time I 
could endure the suspense no longer, and entered the 
room. My father spoke but two words as I silently put 
my arms about his heck. They were, “ Brave girl! ” 
Talismanic words were they to me; and ever after, 
when my spirits flagged, they sounded in my ears, and 
cheered me, and stimulated me, and made me “ brave.” 
His consent, though not withheld, was given with some 
reluctance. But he had greater fears for my health 
than for my success. He assured me —and my ready 
ears drank in the words of promise — that, if I had suf¬ 
ficient self-possession to act in public as he had seen 
me perform in private, my success was certain. 

Before I had contemplated the possibility of becom¬ 
ing an actress, I had partly engaged to write another 
comedy for the Park Theatre. The managers desired 
that the hero should be a young instead of an old man, 
as in Fashion. The part was to be adapted to the 

abilities of their leading juvenile comedian, Mr. C-. 

This gentleman’s performance of the Count, in Fashion, 

had won him much well-deserved applause. Mr. C- 

was consulted concerning the character which I pur¬ 
posed writing for him, and paid us several visits. The 
play was abandoned, in consequence of my determina¬ 
tion to enter the profession ; and this change was at once 
communicated to him. 

I desired to make my first appearance in some of the 
cities of the Union where I was not personally known, 
and to study and practise my profession before I made 
my debut in New York. Mr. C-, however, con¬ 

vinced us that this course would be unwise. The Park 




218 


AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF AN ACTRESS. 


was the one theatre in the Union that could give the 
stamp of legitimacy — my debut must be made there. 
I could afterwards travel and gain experience before I 
accepted a second engagement in New York. He also 
represented to us that I needed an instructor to make 
me acquainted with the traditionary “ stage business ” 
of old-established plays; one who could, at the same 
time, sustain opposite characters to me, and who would 
relieve me from the fatigue of directing rehearsals. 
He assured us that he had played the whole range of 
youthful heroes with Miss Faucitt and other English 
stars of note, and had been well drilled in the duties qf 
stage manager in English and Scottish theatres. 

Before I even made my debut he had entered into 
the following contract with Mr. Mowatt: I was to 
appear on the closing night of the season, at the Park 
Theatre, for his benefit. He was to travel with us and 
play opposite parts to me for one year, sharing equally 
the proceeds of every engagement. He was to assist in 
conducting the business arrangements, superintend all 
rehearsals, and afford me all the dramatic instruction 
in his power. It was soon represented to us by man¬ 
agers that this arrangement was hardly a fair one ; but 
Mr. Mowatt was too honorable not to adhere to a con¬ 
tract once made, however disadvantageous it might 
prove. 

The instant my projected appearance was announced, 
I had to encounter a flood of remonstrances from 
relatives and friends — opposition in every variety of 
form. But tears, entreaties, threats, supplicating letters 
could only occasion me much suffering — they could not 
shake my resol "ion. 


CHAPTER XII. 


Preparations for I)Abut. — First Rehearsal with the Company .— 
Stage Fright. — Star Dressing Room. — Call Boy's Amusement. — 
A Boast opportunely recalled. —Rising of the Curtain. — The 
DAbut. — Second Appearance in public. — Walnut Street Theatre. 
— A distressing Incident. — Indignation of an Audience. — Pain¬ 
ful Discovery. — Conclusion of Engagement. — Fashion performed 
for Mr. Blake's Benefit. — First Appearance as Gertrude. 


The day of my debut was fixed. It was in the 
month of June, 1845. I had three weeks only for 
preparation. Incessant study, training, — discipline 
of a kind which the actor-student alone can ap¬ 
preciate,— were indispensable to perfect success. I 
took fencing lessons, to gain firmness of position and 
freedom of limb. I used dumb bells, to overcome the 
constitutional weakness of my arms and chest. I exer¬ 
cised my voice during four hours every day, to increase 
its power. I wore a voluminous train for as many 
hours daily, to learn the graceful management of 
queenly or classic robes. I neglected no means that 
could fit me to realize my beau ideal of Campbell’s 
lines: — 

“ But by the mighty actor brought, 

Illusion’s perfect triumphs come; 

Verse ceases to be airy thought, 

And sculpture to be dumb.” 

The day before my debut, it was necessary that I 
should rehearse with the company. J f found this a 
severer ordeal than performing before *ne public. Once 

( 219 ) 


220 


AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF AN ACTRESS. 


more I stood upon the dimly-lighted, gloomy stage, 
not now in the position of an author, to observe, to 
criticize, to suggest, but to be observed, to be criticized, 
very possibly — nay, very probably — to be ridiculed, 
if I betrayed the slightest ignorance of what I attempted. 
There is always a half-malicious curiosity amongst 
actors to witness the shortcomings of a novice. They 
invariably experience strong inclinations to prophesy 
failure. No wonder; for they know best the nice sub¬ 
tleties of their own art — the unexpected barriers that 
start up between the neophyte and his goal. 

Only those actors* who are engaged in the scene re¬ 
hearsed are permitted to occupy the stage. The play 
was the Lady of Lyons. Mrs. Vernon, as Madame 
Deschapelles, and I, as Pauline, took our seats to open 
the first scene. The actors crowded around the wings, 
eager to pass judgment on the trembling debutante. 
The stage manager, seated at his table, scanned her 
with cold and scrutinizing eyes. The pale prompter 
laid his book upon his knee, that he might stare at her 
more deliberately. Even the sleepy little call boy, 
regardless of the summons in his hand, put on the sapi¬ 
ent look and attitude of a critic. 

“ If I could but shut out all these eyes ! ” I said to 
myself. But, turn whatever way I would, they met 
me — hemmed me in on all sides — girdled me with 
freezing influences. 

After we had taken our seats, there was a moment’s 
awful silence. It was broken by Mr. Barry’s digni¬ 
fied (he was alarmingly dignified) “ Commence, if you 
please.” 

Mrs. Vernon spoke the first lines of the play. By a 
resolute effort, forcing myself into composure, I replied. 


TIIE FIRST REHEARSAL. 


221 


I cannot tell why, but the sound of my own voice, dis¬ 
tinct and untremulous, reassured me. The Rubicon 
was passed. I thought no more of the surrounding 
eyes, so full of “ speculation ” — of the covert ill wishes 
— of the secret condemnations. I gave myself up to 
the part, and acted with all the abandon and intensity 
of which I was capable. 

During the rehearsal of the third act, I was startled 
by a sudden burst of applause. It came from a crowd 
of actors at the side scenes —- an involuntary and most 
unusual tribute. To say that it produced no effect upon 
me would be affectation. For a moment ray equanimity 
was pleasurably destroyed. I had tasted the first drop 
in the honeyed cup of success. 

“ Go on, if you please — go on,” said Mr. Barry, no¬ 
ticing the pause — and I went on. 

The play continued and ended without further inter¬ 
ruption. When it was over, the company gathered 
around me with tokens of undisguised interest. From 
many lips I received the delightful assurance that, if I 
was not frightened at night, I should achieve a great 
triumph. 

“ I shall not be frightened,” I answered confidently. 

“ Not be frightened ! ” reiterated Mr. Skerrett, (he 
was at that time the low comedian of the Park Thea¬ 
tre ;) “ don’t 4 lay any such flattering unction to your 
soul.’ When night comes, you will be frightened half 
out of your senses — you don’t know what stage fright 
is!” 

“I have a talisman to keep off stage fright — the 
motive that brings me upon the stage.” 

“ We shall see ! ” was his incredulous answer. 

None but actors can thoroughly comprehend the 


222 


AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF AN ACTRESS. 


meaning of the appalling words “ stage fright,” — the 
nightmare of the profession — a sensation of icy ter¬ 
ror, to which no language can give adequate utterance. 
I have seen veteran actors, who had studied some new 
character until every syllable of the author seemed 
indelibly written on their brains, — who had rehearsed 
their parts with the most telling enthusiasm, — who 
gloried in the prospect of making a “ hit,” — at last, 
when night came, and they stood before the footlights to 
imbody the ideal creation for the first time, 1 have seen 
them seized with a sudden tremor — their utterance 
choked — their eyes rolling about, or fixed on va¬ 
cancy — their limbs shaking, and every faculty par¬ 
alyzed. 

I was not initiated into the horrors of “ stage fright” 
on the first night of my performance. But the dramatic 
incubus visited me in its worst form on an equally im¬ 
portant occasion. Nor was the attack the sole one in 
my professional life. By what magic the demon can be 
exorcised, remains an undiscovered mystery. 

The morning of my debut was passed with my sisters. 
Scarcely an allusion was made to the trying event 
which must take place that evening. The rich apparel, 
spread out upon the bed, received its finishing touches 
at their hands, and was consecrated by a few silent 
tears. One of my sisters only — Julia, the youngest — 
had courage to be present when that attire was worn. 

My costume was chosen by Mrs. Vernon, almost the 
first actress with whom I became acquainted — a lady 
highly respected and beloved in the profession. Her 
name and that of her relatives have done honor to the 
stage for a long series of years. 

As we drove to the theatre at night, the carriage 


STAR PRESSING ROOM. 


223 


passed my father’s house. There was a group at the 
window watching for us. Handkerchiefs waved as 
long as we were in sight. 

I cannot help wondering what sort of place the world 
in general imagine the “ star dressing room ” to be. In 
the days of my nescience I presumed that it was a sort 
of boudoir, prettily and comfortably furnished, to which 
the princesses of the stage retired to take their luxuri¬ 
ous ease. But O, the difference ! The “ star dressing 
room ” is usually a small closet-like apartment, with a 
few strips of well-worn baize or carpet on the floor. A 
rude wooden shelf runs along one side of the wall, and 
serves as a dressing table, A dingy looking glass, a 
couple of superannuated chairs, a rickety washstand, — 
these are, generally speaking, the richest luxuries of the 
locality. Such was the “ star dressing room ” to which 
I was introduced at the Park Theatre. Mr. Mo watt’s 
request obtained for me a liliputian sofa, so particularly 
hard that it was at once recognizable as a theatrical 
“ property ” — a thing of sham, designed for the decep¬ 
tion of an audience. I believe even the demand for 
this delusive accessory to comfort was considered very 
unreasonable. 

I was just dressed when there came a slight tap upon 
the door, accompanied by the words, “ Pauline, you are 
called.” 

I opened the door. The call boy stood without — 
the inseparable long strip of paper between his fingers. 
I inquired whom he wanted. 

“ You, ma’am ; you are called.” 

“ What a singular piece of familiarity! ” I thought 
to myself. “ It is I whom he is addressing as 4 Pau¬ 
line.’ ” I did not suspect that it was customary to 


224 


AUTOBIOGRAPHY OP AN ACTRESS. 


call the performers by the names of the characters as¬ 
sumed. 

“ Called for what ? ” I inquired, in a manner that was 
intended to impress the daring offender with a sense of 
the respect due to me. 

“ For what ? ” he retorted, prolonging the what with 
an indescribably humorous emphasis, and thrusting his 
tongue against his cheek, “why, for the stage, to be 
sure ! That’s the what! ” 

“ O ! ” was all I could say ; and the little urchin ran 
down stairs smothering his laughter. Its echo, how¬ 
ever, reached me from the greenroom, where, after 
making his “ call,” he had probably related my unso¬ 
phisticated inquiry. 

At that moment Mr. Mowatt came to conduct me to 
the stage. Mrs. Vernon, who played my mother, was 
already seated at a small table in Madame Deschapelles’ 
drawing room. I took my place on a sofa opposite 
to her, holding in my hand a magnificent bouquet, 
Claude’s supposed offering to Pauline. 

After a few whispered words of encouragement, Mr. 
Mowatt left me, to witness the performance from the 
front of the house. Somebody spread my Pauline 
scarf on the chair beside me. Somebody else arranged 
the folds of my train symmetrically. Somebody’s fingers 
gathered into their place a few stray curls. The stage 
manager gave the order of “ Clear the stage, ladies and 
gentlemen,” and I heard sound the little bell for the 
raising of the curtain. 

Until that moment I do not think a pulse in my 
frame had quickened its beating. But then I was 
seized with a stifling sensation, as though I were chok¬ 
ing. I could only gasp out, “ Not yet — I cannot! ” 


RISING OP THE CURTAIN. 


225 


Of course, there was general confusion. Managers, 
actors, prompter, all rushed on the stage; some offered 
water, some scent bottles, some fanned me. E very body 
seemed prepared to witness a fainting fit, or an attack 
of hysterics, or something equally ridiculous. I was 
arguing with myself against the absurdity of this ungov¬ 
ernable emotion — this humiliating exhibition — and 
making a desperate endeavor to regain my self-posses¬ 
sion, when Mr. Skerrett thrust his comic face over 
somebody’s shoulder. He looked at m$ with an expres¬ 
sion of quizzical exultation, and exclaimed, — 

“ Didn’t I tell you so ? Where’s all the courage, 
eh?” 

The words recalled my boast of the morning; or 
rather, they recalled the recollections upon which that 
boast was founded. My composure returned as rapidly 
as it had departed. I laughed at my own weakness. 

“ Are you getting better ? ” kindly inquired the stage 
manager. 

“ Let the curtain rise ! ” was the satisfactory answer. 

Mr. Barry clapped his hands, — a signal for the stage 
to be vacated, — the crowd at once disappeared. Ma¬ 
dame Deschapelles and Pauline sat alone, as before. 
The tinkling bell of warning rang, and the curtain 
slowly ascended, disclosing first the footlights, then the 
ocean of heads beyond them in the pit, then the bril¬ 
liant array of ladies in the boxes, tier after tier, and 
finally the thronged galleries. I found those footlights 
an invaluable aid to the necessary illusion. They 
formed a dazzling barrier, that separated the spectator 
from the ideal world in which the actor dwelt. Their 
glare prevented the eye from being distracted by ob¬ 
jects without the precincts of that luminous semicircle. 
15 


226 


AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF AN ACTRESS. 


They were a friendly protection, a warm comfort, an 
idealizing auxiliary. 

The debutante was greeted warmly. This was but 
a matter-of-course compliment paid by a New York 
audience to the daughter of a well-known citizen. 

“ Bow! bow! ” whispered a voice from behind the 
scenes. And I obediently bent my head. 

“ Bow to your right! ” said the voice, between the in¬ 
tervals of applause. I bowed to the right. 

“ Bow to the left! ” I bowed to the left. 

“ Bow again ! ” I bowed again and again while the 
noisy welcome lasted. 

The play commenced, and, with the first words I 
uttered, I concentrated my thoughts, and tried to forget 
that I had any existence save that of the scornful 
Lady of Lyons. When we rose from our seats and 
approached the footlights, Mrs. Vernon gave my hand 
a reassuring pressure. It was a kindness scarcely 
needed. I had lost all sensation of alarm. The play 
progressed as smoothly as it commenced. In the third 
act, where Pauline first discovers the treachery of 
Claude, the powers of the actress begin to be tested. 
Every point told, and was rewarded with an inspiring 
burst of applause. The audience had determined to 
blow into a flame the faintest spark of merit. 

In the fourth act, I became greatly exhausted with 
the unusual ^excitement and exertion. There seemed a 
probability that I would not have physical strength to 
enable me to finish the performance. Mrs. Vernon has 
often laughingly reminded me how she shook and 
pinched me when I was lying, to all appearance, ten¬ 
derly clasped in her arms. She maintains that, by these 
means, she constantly roused me to consciousness. I 


SUMMONS BEFORE THE CURTAIN. 


227 


am her debtor for the friendly pinches and opportune 
shakes. 

In the fifth act, Pauline’s emotions are all of calm 
and abject grief — the faint, hopeless smugglings 
of a broken heart. My very weariness aided the per¬ 
sonation. The pallor of excessive fatigue, the worn- 
out look, tottering walk, and feeble voice, suited 
Pauline’s deep despair. The audience attributed to an 
actor’s consummate skill that which was merely a pain¬ 
ful and accidental reality. 

The play ended, the curtain fell. It would be im¬ 
possible to describe my sensations of relief as I watched 
that welcome screen of coarse, green baize slowly un¬ 
rolling itself and dropping between the audience and 
the stage. Then came the call before the curtain — the 
crossing the stage in front of the footlights. Mr. 

C-led me out. The whole house rose, even the 

ladies — a compliment seldom paid. I think it rained 
flowers ; for bouquets, wreaths of silver, and wreaths of 
laurel fell in showers around us. Cheer followed 
cheer as they were gathered up and laid in my 
arms. The hats of gentlemen and handkerchiefs of 
ladies waved on every side. I courtesied my thanks, 
and the welcome green curtain once more shut out the 
brilliant assemblage. Then came the deeper, truer 
sense of thankfulness. The trial was over ; the debu¬ 
tante had stood the test; she had not mistaken the 
career which had been clearly pointed out as the one 
for which she was destined. 

The carriage stopped at my father’s house as we drove 
home. He had heard the wheels, and opened the coach 
door himself. Fondly and closely was one occupant 
of that carriage pressed to his heart. My sense of 



228 


AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF AN ACTRESS. 


distinctive appreciation must have been blunted indeed 
if his words of congratulation did not fall sweeter upon 
my ears than all the applause that was still echoing 
within them. He had witnessed the performance 
from a private box, but I had not been aware of his 
presence. 

The next morning the press were unanimous in com¬ 
mendation. The journals of the day were filled with 
gratifying predictions — prophecies that have not re¬ 
mained wholly unrealized. 

Offers of engagements in all the principal theatres 
throughout the Union now poured in upon us. The 
first engagement that we accepted was at the Walnut 
Street Theatre, Philadelphia, where Fashion had been 
produced. 

I made my appearance there a few nights after my 
debut in New York. If I had abundant cause for 
gratitude and self-congratulation on the first night of 
my appearance in public, I suffered enough upon the 
second to atone for all the elation or vanity of which I 
may have been guilty: 

Mr. C-’s contract stipulated that he should play 

opposite characters to me in whatever theatre we ap¬ 
peared. Mr. Wheatley was. an established favorite at 
the Walnut Street Theatre. He had enacted, to the 
satisfaction of the audience, the same role that Mr. 
C-was called upon to assume. The manager re¬ 

monstrated at Mr. Wheatley’s being displaced; various 
friends assured us that the public would demand him 

as my support; but what could be done ? Mr. C- 

had the right of supporting me by contract; he could 
not be asked to forego a right so advantageous. Had 
he been asked, he would certainly have given an indig¬ 
nant refusal. 





FIRST NIGHT IN PHILADELPHIA. 


229 


The play was the Lady of Lyons. The house was 
crowded to its utmost capacity. For the second time 
I took my seat upon the small sofa to represent Pauline 
Deschapelles. The curtain rose. The welcome was 
fully as cordial as in New York. The first act and 
the second act passed off uninterruptedly as before. 
In the third, Pauline is thrown constantly with Claude. 

I observed that Mr. C-hesitated in the words of 

his part; now and then he spoke in a thick voice; he 
walked with an unsteady step; and when the business 
of the play required him to take my hand, his own 
trembled violently. 

“ This is what actors call ‘ stage fright , ’ ” was my 
internal reflection ; “ he knows that the audience de¬ 
sire Mr. Wheatley in this part; and he is so much 
alarmed that he cannot act.” 

This misplaced emotion, as I thought it, on the part 
of Claude, distracted my attention, and prevented my 
identifying myself with the character of Pauline. 

In the fourth act, during the scene between the 
widow and Pauline, Beauseant and Pauline, I began to 
recover my suspended faculties. Claude enters; and 
with the first words he uttered came that sound, 
more fearful than all others to an actor’s ears — a hiss 
— a faint one, still a hiss ! I heard Claude groan and 
ejaculate something in an undertone. I felt indignant 
at the want of generosity displayed by the audience. 
As the act advanced, the hisses were repeated when¬ 
ever he spoke. A succession of false notes in a concert 
could not have a more jarring effect upon the nerves. 
I could scarcely remember a line of my part, and, im¬ 
mediately after the curtain fell, had not the slightest recol¬ 
lection how the act ended. 



230 


AUTOBIOGRAPHY OP AN ACTRESS. 


After a change of attire, Pauline appears alone in the 
fifth act. When the scene opened, the audience loudly 
testified by their greeting that no share of their dis¬ 
pleasure was intended for me. I was too much agitated 
to attempt to personate Pauline as I had done on a pre¬ 
vious occasion. I mechanically uttered the words of 
the text. The anticipation of Claude’s appearance, 
which must take place in a few moments, had filled me 
with dread — a fear that was too well founded. The 
audience allowed him to enter, and were silent. Pauline 
makes her appeal to Colonel Damas ; Claude advances, 
and she approaches him. Without looking at him, I 
hurried over the language of the part, not waiting for 
his few words of reply, and turned to the table, where 
the father and mother of Pauline were seated. Then 
Claude must speak. The hisses of the audience were 
deafening. The theatre seemed suddenly filled with 
snakes. I turned round instinctively; the pit had risen 
in a body with evident intention of violence. (I after¬ 
wards heard that they were prepared to fling brickbats 
at thl offending Claude.) I did not suspect in what 

manner Mr. C- had deserved their displeasure. 

That he chanced to be an Englishman was, I imagined, 
his principal crime; and the audience chose that I 
should appear with my own countryman, Mr. Wheatley, 
their avowed favorite. 

Advancing to the front of the stage, I rapidly en¬ 
treated their forbearance. What I said I have not the 
remotest idea; for I acted on impulse, and under strong 
excitement, believing that I was only preventing a gross 
injustice. Instantaneously every seat was resumed. A 
dead silence prevailed while I spoke, and applause took 
the place of hisses. There were too many true gentle- 



A DISTRESSING DISCOVERY. 


231 


men present for Mr. C-to have any thing further to 

fear, little as he merited the defence. A faint attempt 
was made to conclude the play. The audience offered 
no opposition, and in a few minutes the curtain fell. 

I was unwilling to respond to the “ call,” but yielded 

to the request of the managers. Mr. C-offered to 

lead me out. I knew that it was unwise to accept his 
services, but I could not refuse them without wounding 
him more deeply. He stooped to gather the bouquets 
with which the audience, in anticipation of a perform¬ 
ance very different from the one they had witnessed, 
came supplied. Then I noticed that he reeled from side 
to side, and, after bending down, could scarcely regain his 
equilibrium. I thought it very strange that his “ stage 
fright ” deprived him of the faculty of moving about 
without staggering, when the play was ended. The in¬ 
stant we were behind the scenes again, he gave way to 
an extravagant burst of grief, and darted off, followed 
by several of his friends. 

Mr. Mowatt was leading me to my dressing room 
when I overheard the Madame Deschapelles of the 
evening say to another lady, “ He got no more than he 
deserved — I wish they had brickbated him — the 
man was as drunk as he could be! ” 

“ What a shame! ” I involuntarily exclaimed, turning 
to Mr. Mowatt; “did you hear what that woman 
said ? ” 

“ Yes,” he replied, “ and it is too true. I saw you 
did not suspect his situation, and purposely left you in 
ignorance.” 

Suspect it ? The idea that he was intoxicated never 
once entered my head. Nor was it remarkable that I 
should not have recognized the workings of the en£my 




232 


AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF AN ACTRESS. 


which “ men put into their mouths to steal away their 
brains; ” for up to that period it had been my fortune 
to witness few similar exhibitions. 

The painful impressions of that wretched night very 
nearly gave me a distaste for the profession — but I 
had not entered it for amusement. 

The next night Mr. C-made an apology to the au¬ 

dience, stating that he had been led into an unwonted 
indiscretion while “ dining out,” and entreating their 
indulgence. They pardoned him nominally , but rarely 
bestowed upon his best efforts any evidence of approval. 
The engagement was a trying one, and I rejoiced when 
it was concluded. The houses were but half filled, and 
I labored under a sense of depression which nothing 
could remove. 

At the close of the fortnight Mr. C-returned to 

New York, and I remained one night in Philadelphia to 
appear for the benefit of Mr. Blake, the stage manager. 
He selected Fashion as the play to be represented, and 
persuaded me to enact Gertrude. The character affords 
no opportunity for the display of dramatic abilities, and 
I reluctantly consented. Once more an audience as 
fashionable and as crowded, as the one which witnessed 
the miseries of my first night in Philadelphia graced the 
theatre. Mr. Wheatley appeared in his original part 
of the Count, and was received with enthusiasm. Mr. 
Blake’s Adam Trueman was more truthful and touching 
than ever. The play could not on any occasion have 
given more satisfaction. 




CHAPTER XIII. 


The first Year on the Stage. — Two Hundred Performances. 
Amount of Study. — Lady Teazle’s untimely Drowsiness. — First 
Sha/cspearian Impersonation. — Difference between Rehearsing and 
Acting. — Juliet’s Tomb. — Scene Shifter's sepulchral Prediction. 
— Novel Substitute for a Sleeping Potion. — Death of Paris by 
a Novice. — Two Schools of Acting. — Anecdote of a Stranger. — 
Mrs. Haller’s colored Descendants. — Incident in Charleston. — 
Address to the Charleston Volunteers. — Complimentary Entertain¬ 
ment in Savannah. — Relationship which Actors hold to each other. 


We made the tour of the United States, and met 
with an uninterrupted series of successes. 

Every night not consumed in travelling was engaged 
at various theatres for a year in advance. In New 
York we fulfilled a long engagement at Niblo’s, but did 
not appear again at the Park Theatre until spring. In 
that first year I acted two hundred nights. 

When I made my debut I was only prepared in one 
part; yet, before the close of the year, I had enacted 
all the most popular characters in juvenile comedy 
and tragedy. From this fact some estimate may be 
formed of the amount of study requisite. Often after 
a protracted rehearsal in the morning, and an arduous 
performance at night, I returned home from the theatre 
wearied out in mind and body; yet I dared not rest. 
The character to be represented on the succeeding night 
still required several hours of reflection and application. 
Sometimes I kept myself awake by bathing my heavy 
eyes and throbbing temples with iced water as I com- 

( 233 ) 


234 


AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF AN ACTRESS. 


mitted the words to memory. Sometimes I could only 
battle with the angel who 

“ Knits up the ravelled sleeve of care ” 

by rapidly pacing the room while I studied. Now and 
then I was fairly conquered, and fell asleep over my 
books. 

Strange to say, my health, instead of failing entirely, 
as was predicted, visibly improved. The deleterious 
effects of late hours were counteracted by constant ex¬ 
ercise, an animating, exhilarating pursuit, and the all- 
potent nepenthe of inner peace. I gained new vigor 
and elasticity. With the additional burden came the 
added strength whereby it could be borne. 

As may be readily imagined, I was often weary to 
exhaustion, even during the performance. On one oc¬ 
casion my fatigue very nearly placed me in a predica¬ 
ment as awkward to me as it would have been amusing 
to the audience. We were fulfilling a long engagement 
at Niblo’s. I was playing Lady Teazle in the School 
for Scandal. When Lady Teazle, at the announcement 
of Sir Peter, is concealed behind the screen in Joseph 
Surface’s library, she is compelled to remain a quarter 
of an hour, or perhaps twenty minutes, in this confine¬ 
ment. I was dreadfully fatigued, and glad of the op¬ 
portunity to rest. There was no chair. At first I 
knelt for relief. Becoming tired of that position, I 
quietly laid myself down, and, regardless of Lady Tea¬ 
zle’s ostrich plumes, made a pillow of my arms for my 
head. I listened to Placide’s most humorous persona¬ 
tion of Sir Peter for a while; but gradually his voice 
grew more and more indistinct, melting into a soothing 
murmur, and then was heard no more. I fell into a 


INOPPORTUNE SLUMBER. 


235 


profound sleep. When Charles Surface is announced, 
Sir Peter is hurried by Joseph into the closet. Lady 
Teazle (according to Sheridan) peeps from behind the 
screen, and intimates to Joseph the propriety of locking 
Sir Peter in, and proposes her own escape. At the 
sound of Charles Surface’s step, she steals behind 
the screen again. The cue was given, but no Lady 
Teazle made her appearance. She was slumbering in 
happy unconsciousness that theatres were ever instituted. 

Mr. Jones, the prompter, supposing that I had for¬ 
gotten my part, ran to one of the wings from which he 
could obtain a view behind the screen. To his mingled 
diversion and consternation, he beheld Lady Teazle 
placidly sleeping upon the floor. Of course, he could 
not reach her. I have often heard him relate the fran¬ 
tic manner in which he shouted, in an imploring stage 
whisper, “ Mrs. Mo watt, wake up ! For goodness’ sake, 
wake up ! Charles Surface is just going to pull the 
screen down! Wake up! You’ll be caught by the 
audience asleep ! Wake up! Good gracious, do wake 
up!” 

I have some confused recollection of hearing the 
words “ wake up ! wake up ! ” As I opened my heavy 
eyes, they fell upon Mr. Jones, making the most violent 
gesticulations, waving about his prompt book, and almost 
dancing in the excitement of his alarm. The hand of 
Charles Surface was already on the screen. I sprang 
to my feet, hardly remembering where I was, and had 
barely time to smooth down my train when the screen 
fell. A moment sooner, and how would the slumbering 
Lady Teazle, suddenly awakened, have contrived to im¬ 
press the audience with the sense of her deep contri¬ 
tion for her imprudence! how persuaded her husband 


236 


AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF AN ACTRESS. 


that she had discovered her injustice to him during her 
pleasant nap ! 

The second character which I enacted was Juliana, 
in Tobin’s comedy of the Honeymoon. I plead guilty 
to the bad taste of delineating with especial delight the 
piquant shrewishness of the “painter’s daughter.” 

My third character was the Bride of Lammermoor. 

And then, with timid reverence, I ventured to bow 
the knee at the shrine of the mighty master. My 
whole being merged itself into the impassioned exist¬ 
ence of Shakspeare’s Juliet. 

During the drudgery of rehearsal, the actor drops 
disenchanted from the realms of cloudland, where he 
dwelt with the ideal creations of the poet. The incon¬ 
gruous elements that compose, the frigid atmosphere 
that pervades, a theatre blind his mental vision. He 
struggles in vain to catch the golden rays that flooded 
his spirit in its serene seclusion. The prismatic hues 
of imagination fade into utter darkness before the con¬ 
ventionalities of his profession. All the delicacies of 
his inspired conception suddenly vanish, and he stands 
with the bare, cold outline of what he designed, before 
him, powerless to clothe it with beauty. Thus I felt 
when I first attempted to rehearse Juliet. Disap¬ 
pointed and dispirited, I turned wearily from the task. 

But when night comes, and the actor lays aside his 
personality with his every-day garments, the Prome¬ 
thean fire is rekindled — he reascends the height from 
which he fell in the morning — external circumstances 
lie beneath his feet — his gaze is upward, not down¬ 
ward — he not imbodies merely, but ensouls the ema¬ 
nation of the poet’s mind. Such were my experiences 
when I first had the hardihood to enact Juliet. 


Juliet’s dagger. 


237 


No character ever excited me more intensely. Ju¬ 
liet’s dagger, too impetuously used, more than once drew 
blood. But I found the sensation of stabbing one’s self 
any thing but poetic; the dagger’s point was conse¬ 
quently dulled into harmlessness. Once I forgot this 
necessary appendage of the heroine in the last act. 
Borneo, who was lying dead upon the ground, was better 
provided. As I stooped to loosen the steel from his 
girdle, the poisoned lover, who was aware of my stab¬ 
bing episodes, came suddenly to life, and whispered, in 
a sepulchral tone, “ Look out — it’s very sharp — you’ll 
stab yourself.” 

I well remember my sensations the first time I was 
ever laid in Juliet’s tomb. The friar tells her that, ac¬ 
cording to the custom of her country, she shall be borne 

“ In her best robes, uncovered, on the bier.” 

Adhering to the text, I have since worn bridal attire in 
place of the shroud-like dress usually adopted by stage 
Juliets. But that night a loose white muslin robe, 
drawn in folds around the throat, and fastened with a 
cord at the waist, was the garment accidentally chosen 
for me. It was too palpably suited to the bier. The 
walls of the tomb were hung with black. An antique 
lamp, that shed a luridly-green light upon my face, was 
suspended from the centre of the sombre, though tem¬ 
porary, enclosure. As I lay waiting for Romeo to kill 
Paris and break open the doors of the sepulchre, I 
overheard the whispered conversation of some scene 
shifters who stood without. They were each holding a 
cord attached to the doors of the tomb. The cords, ac¬ 
cording to stage direction, were to be loosened at the 
third blow of Romeo’s “ wrenching iron.” The worthy 


238 


AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF AN ACTRESS. 


scene shifters passed sentence of death upon me with 
admirable sang froid, and decided that I would soon be 
lying “ for good ” and “ in earnest ” where I was then 
reposing as Juliet’s representative— in the tomb. 

To use the expressive language of one of the men, I 
was “ booked for the other world, and no mistake! ” 
Their grave predictions were interrupted by Romeo’s 
first blow upon the door. I was not particularly sorry 
when the funereal portals flew back, and he bore me 
out of the mock sepulchre. 

Juliet was one of the characters in which I seemed 
fated to be placed in constant peril of life or limb. 
Several times the balcony, from which the loving lady 
of Verona makes her midnight confession to Romeo, 
was dangerously insecure. Once a portion of the rail¬ 
ing, over which I was leaning, forgetful of its repre¬ 
sentative nature , gave way. Had I not dropped sud¬ 
denly on my knees, Juliet must have been precipitated 
into Romeo’s arms before he expected her, and very 
probably would not have visited Friar Lawrence’s cell 
that night. 

One evening, the property mar — so the individual 
who has the charge of potions, amulets, caskets of jewels, 
purses filled with any quantity of golden coin, and other 
theatrical treasures, designated as stage properties, is 
styled — forgot the bottle containing Juliet’s sleeping 
potion. The omission was only discovered at the mo¬ 
ment the vial was needed. Some bottle must be fur¬ 
nished to the Friar, or he cannot utter the solemn charge 
with which he confides the drug to the perplexed scion 
of the Capulets. The property man, confused at discov¬ 
ering his own neglect, and fearful of the fine to which it 
would subject him, caught up the first small bottle at 


AN INKY POTION. 


239 


hand, and gave it to the Friar. The vial was the 
prompter’s, and contained ink. When Juliet snatched 
the fatal potion from the Friar’s hand, he whispered 
something in an undertone. I caught the words, “so 
take care,” but was too absorbed in my part to compre¬ 
hend the warning. Juliet returns home — meets her 
parents — retires to her own chamber — dismisses her 
nurse — and finally drinks the potion. At the words, — 

“ Romeo ! this do I drink to thee ! ” 

I placed the bottle to my lips, and unsuspiciously swal¬ 
lowed the inky draft! The dark stain upon my hands 
and lips might have been mistaken for the quick work¬ 
ings of the poison, for the audience remained ignorant of 
the mishap, which I only half comprehended. When the 
scene closed, the prompter rushed up to me, exclaiming, 
“ Good gracious ! you have been drinking from my bot¬ 
tle of ink ! ” I could not resist the temptation of quoting 
the remark of the dying wit under similar circum¬ 
stances — “ Let me swallow a sheet of blotting paper! ” 
The frightened prompter, however, did not understand 
the joke. 

The misfortunes that attended the representation of 
Romeo and Juliet that night did not all fall upon me. 
The part of Paris was intrusted to a promising young 
novice. He delivered the language with scholarly pre¬ 
cision, and might have passed for an actor until he 
came to the fighting scene with Romeo. Romeo dis¬ 
armed him with a facility which did great credit to the 
good nature of Paris, for whom life had, of course, lost 
its charms with Juliet. It then became the duty of 
Paris, who is mortally wounded, to die. The Paris 
on this occasion took his death blow very kindly. His 


240 


AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF AN ACTRESS. 


dying preparations were made with praiseworthy de¬ 
liberation. First he looked over one shoulder, and then 
over the other, to find a soft place where he might fall 
— it was evidently his intention to yield up his exist¬ 
ence as comfortably as possible. Having satisfied him¬ 
self in the selection of an advantageous spot, he dropped 
down gently, breaking his descent in a manner not al¬ 
together describable. As he softly laid himself back, 
he informed Romeo of the calamity that had befallen 
him by ejaculating, — 

“ O, I am slain! ” 

The audience hissed their rebellion at such an easy 
death. 

“ If thou art merciful-” 

continued Paris — the audience hissed more loudly still, 
as though calling upon Romeo to show no mercy to a 
man who died so luxuriously. 

“ Open the tomb, and-” 

faltered Paris — but what disposition he preferred to 
be made of the mortal mould, upon which he had be¬ 
stowed such care, no Romeo could have heard; for th& 
redoubled hisses of the audience drowned all other 
sounds, and admonished Paris to precipitate his depart¬ 
ure to the other world. 

The next day, the young aspirant for dramatic dis¬ 
tinction was summoned by the manager, and asked what 
he meant by dying in such a manner on the night 
previous. 

“ Why, I thought that I did the thing in the most 
gentlemanly style,” replied the discomfited Thespian. 

“ How came you to look behind you, sir, before you 
fell ? ” angrily inquired the manager. 


TWO SCHOOLS OF ACTING. 


241 


“ Surely you wouldn’t have had me drop down with¬ 
out looking out to see what I was going to strike 
against ? ” 

“ Do you suppose a man, when he is killed in reality, 
looks behind him for a convenient spot before he falls, 
sir?” 

“ But I wasn’t killed in reality, and I was afraid of 
dislocating my shoulder! ” pleaded Paris. 

“ Afraid of dislocating your shoulder! If you are 
afraid of breaking your leg or your neck either, when 
you are acting,” said the stern manager, “you’re not fit 
for this profession. Your instinct of self-preservation 
is too large for an actor’s economy. You’re dismissed, 
sir; there’s no employment here for persons of your 
eautious temperament.” 

There are two distinct schools of acting, and it is a 
disputed point which is the greater. The actor of the one 
school totally loses his own individuality, and abandons 
himself to all the absorbing emotions that belong to the 
character he interprets. His tears are real, his laugh¬ 
ter real, as real to himself as to the audience. Fre¬ 
quently they are more real to himself than to his listen¬ 
ers ; for the capacity of feeling, and the faculty of ex¬ 
pressing the sensation experienced, are widely different. 
The current upon which the actor is borne away may, 
or may not, be strong enough to bear the spectator upon 
its bosom. Byron says, — 

“ The poet claims our tears; but by your leave, 

Before we shed them, let us see him grieve l ” 

But audiences say nothing of the kind. They are oft- 
ener moved by what is simulated than by what is felt. 

16 


242 


AUTOBIOGRAPHY OP AN ACTRESS. 


The paste jewel glitters more brightly in their eyes 
than the diamond of pure water. 

The actor of an opposite school, if he be a thorough 
artist, is more certain of producing startling effects. 
He stands unmoved amidst the boisterous seas, the 
whirlwinds of passion, swelling around him. He exer¬ 
cises perfect command ov6r the emotions of the audi¬ 
ence; seems to hold their heartstrings in his hands, 
to play upon their sympathies as on an instrument; 
to electrify or subdue his hearers by an effort of volition ; 
but not a pulse in his own frame beats more rapidly 
than its wont. His personations are cut out of marble; 
they are grand, sublime, but no heart throbs within the 
life-like sculpture. Such was the school of the great 
Talma. This absolute power over others, combined 
with perfect self-command, is pronounced by a certain 
class of critics the perfection of dramatic art. 

I have acted with distinguished tragedians, who, after 
some magnificent burst of pathos which seemed wrung 
from the inmost depths of the soul, while the audience 
were deafening themselves, and us, with their frantic 
applause, quietly turned to their brethren with a comical 
grimace and a few muttered words of satirical humor 
that caused an irresistible burst of laughter. Heads 
were turned away, and handkerchiefs stuffed into mouths, 
but the “ star of the goodlie companie” stood rapt in 
unconsciousness, very touching to the audience, but par¬ 
ticularly trying to the convulsed actors. 

This singular faculty of keeping a “ stage existence ” 
totally distinct from the actor’s own personality, has 
many times been ludicrously exhibited to me. I men¬ 
tion an illustrative occasion. 

I was fulfilling an engagement in one of the English 


A HUMOROUS STRANGER. 


243 


provincial towns. The play was the Stranger. An old- 
established favorite of that audience enacted the Stran¬ 
ger, and with considerable power. It was the first night 
this gentleman had assumed an opposite character to 
me. We had never exchanged words, except a cour¬ 
teous “good morning” when we met at rehearsal, and 
a “good evening” at night. The play had made a 
deep impression upon the audience. During the fifth 
act, when Mrs. Haller implores her injured husband to 
allow her to behold her children once more, the sound 
of weeping throughout the house was distinctly audible 
upon the stage. Mrs. Haller had just spoken the 
words, “ Let me kiss the features of their father in his 
babes, and I will kneel to you, and part with them for¬ 
ever.” 

The Stranger turned to raise me from my knees, 
and, as he did so, whispered, in the most lachrymose 
voice, “ Poor things, they want umbrellas in front! ” 
Then, in precisely the same tone, he uttered aloud the 
words of his part — “ Willingly, Adelaide. I have de¬ 
spatched a servant for them to the neighboring village. 
He should be back by this time. When he arrives, 
they shall be conducted to the castle. They may 
remain with you until daybreak. Then they must go 
with me! ” 

The sobs of the audience increased. In the same 
tone of deep anguish the Stranger murmured, as he 
again leaned over me, “ It’s raining so fast in the boxes 
that those poor fellows in the pit will catch their death 
of cold. I’d better send umbrellas round 1 ” Not a 
muscle of his countenance changed; his face retained 
its heart-broken expression, and he sadly and deliber¬ 
ately wiped the supposed tears from his eyes. 


244 


AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF AN ACTRESS. 


I had iio such control over my risible propensities. 
I could only bury my face in my handkerchief; but for¬ 
tunately the laughter which I could not suppress had an 
hysterical sound not inappropriate to Mrs. Haller. 

No amount of study or discipline could have enabled 
me to belong to the grand and passionless school. I 
never succeeded in stirring the hearts of others unless I 
was deeply affected myself. The putting off of self- 
consciousness was, with me, the first imperative element 
of success. Yet I agree with those who maintain that 
the highest school of art is that in which the actor, 
Prospero-like, raises or stills tempestuous waves by the 
magical force of his will — produces and controls, with¬ 
out sharing , the emotions of his audience. 

The anecdote I have just related is not the only ludi¬ 
crous one associated in my mind with the play of the 
Stranger. An amusing incident .occurred one night 
during that play’s representation in Savannah. I was 
informed at rehearsal that the two children, who usually 
appeared as Mrs. Haller’s forsaken little ones, were ill. 
No other children could be obtained. Yet children 
were indispensable adjuncts in the last scene. The play 
could not be changed at such hasty notice. What could 
be done ? 

I was walking up and down behind the scenes, very 
much annoyed, and wondering how the difficulty could 
be overcome, when the person who temporarily officiated 
as my dressing maid accosted me. She was an exceed¬ 
ingly pretty mulatto girl. She saw that I was distressed 
about the absent children, and, with a great deal of hes¬ 
itation, offered to supply the deficiency. I brightened 
at the prospective deliverance from our dilemma, and, 
telling her that I would be much obliged, inquired to 
whom the children belonged. 


MRS. HALLER S COLORED DESCENDANTS. 245 


“ They are mine, ma’am,” she answered, timidly. “ I 
have a couple of pretty little ones very much at your 
service.” 

“ Yours ? ” I answered, aghast at the information. 
“Yours? Why, Mrs. Haller’s children are supposed 
to be white. I am afraid yours won’t very readily pass 
for mine; ” and I could hardly help laughing at the 
supposition. 

The young woman took my distressed merriment 
good naturedly, and replied, “ 0, my children are not 
very black, seeing as how their father is altogether 
white ! ” 

“ Do you really think they would pass for white 
children ? ” 

“ Why, the little girl has blue eyes, and they have 
both got hair nearly as light as yours; then you might 
powder them up a bit, if you thought best.” 

I sent her for the children. They were really lovely 
little creatures, with clear, cream-colored complexions, 
and hair that fell in showers of waving ringlets. I de¬ 
cided at once that they would do, and told her to bring 
them at night in their prettiest dresses, to which I 
would add any needful additions. 

The children do not make their appearance until the 
last act. After retouching their toilets, instructing them 
in what they had to do, and feeding them with sugar 
plums, I told their mother to make them a bed with 
shawls in the corner of my dressing room. She did so, 
and they slept quietly through four acts of the play. 
We gently awakened them for the fifth act. But their 
sleep was too thoroughly the sweet, deep slumber of 
happy childhood to be easily dispelled. With great diffi¬ 
culty I made them comprehend where they were, and 


246 AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF AN ACTRESS. 

what they must do. Even a fresh supply of sugar plums 
failed to entirely arouse them. The sleepy heads would 
drop upon their pretty, round shoulderi, and they de¬ 
voured the bonbons with closed eyes. 

The curtain had risen, and the children must appear 
upon the stage. I led them to the wing, and gave 
them in charge of Francis. Francis walked on the 
stage, holding a child in each hand. The trio had 
hardly made their appearance when the little girl, 
thoroughly awakened by the dazzling light, gave one 
frightened look at the audience, broke away from Fran¬ 
cis, and, shrieking loudly, rushed up and down the 
stage, trying to find some avenue through which she 
might escape. The audience shouted with laughter, 
and the galleries applauded the sport. The poor little 
girl grew more and more bewildered. Francis pursued 
her, dragging her brother after him. The unexpected 
exercise, added to his sister’s continued cries, alarmed 
the boy. He screamed in concert, and, after some 
desperate struggles, obtained his liberty. Francis had 
now both children to chase about the stage. The boy 
he soon captured and caught up under his arm, con¬ 
tinuing his flight after the girl. She was finally secured. 
The children, according to stage direction, are to be 
taken through a little cottage door on the left of the 
stage. Francis, panting with his exertions, dragged 
them to the door, which he pushed open with his foot. 
The struggling children looked in terror at the cottage. 
They fancied it was the guard house, in which colored 
persons are liable to be confined if they are found in the 
streets after a certain hour without a “ pass.” 

Clinging to Francis, they cried out together, “O, 
don’t ee put me in ee guard house ! Don’t ee put me 
in ee guard house! ” 


STAGE ILLUSION DISPELLED. 


247 


The accent peculiar to their race, and their allusion 
to the “ guard house,” at once betrayed to the audience 
their parentage. The whole house broke forth into an 
uproar of merriment. Francis disappeared, but the 
audience could not be quieted. 

I was suffering not a little at the contemplated im¬ 
possibility of producing the children at the end of the 
play. But nobody cared to listen to another line. 
Mrs. Haller’s colored children had unceremoniously 
destroyed every vestige of illusion . I made my suppli¬ 
cation to “ kiss the features of the father in his babes ” 
in the most suppressed tone possible, yet the request 
produced a fresh burst of laughter. We hurried the 
play to a close. The entrance of the children, and the 
excitement produced upon the parents by their pres¬ 
ence, we left to the imagination of the spectators. The 
play ended without the reappearance of the juvenile 
unfortunates. 

A few evenings previous to this comical incident, 
another of a precisely opposite character took place in 
Charleston. The play was the same. I mention the 
anecdote because the morality of the Stranger is by 
many persons considered dubious. I think this relation 
proves that, in a mixed audience, there are sometimes 
beings upon whom the representation of Kotzebue’s con¬ 
demned play may have a beneficial influence. While 
I was delivering the speech in which Mrs. Haller con¬ 
fesses her crime, the audience were startled by a sud¬ 
den shriek. The very sound proclaimed that it had 
been wrung involuntarily from some conscience-stricken 
heart. A confusion in the dress circle ensued. Then 
followed hysterical sobs and screams, and a lady was 
carried by her friends from the theatre. 


248 


AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF AN ACTRESS. 


The next morning a gentleman called upon me, and 
related the history of the lady whose agitation had dis¬ 
turbed the equanimity of the audience. She was taken 
home in a state of excitement bordering on frenzy, and 
confessed that she had been on the eve of bringing 
upon herself the lifelong miseries endured by Mrs. 
Haller. I do not feel at liberty to dwell upon the par¬ 
ticulars of the story, but the sequel proved that the rep¬ 
resentation of the Stranger was instrumental in saving 
at least one frail being from becoming 

“ Like stars that fall to rise no more.” 

Our engagement in Charleston, during this my first 
season on the stage, was of long duration, and was fol¬ 
lowed by a succession of prosperous reengagements. 
The theatre was under the able management of Mr. 
Forbes. I became very much attached to this warm, 
southern audience. 

When we were about to leave, I was solicited to de¬ 
liver an address to the Charleston volunteers, in com¬ 
memoration of their departure for Mexico. I think 
they were styled the Palmetto Guard. The occasion 
has left a deep impression on my memory. The stage 
represented the signing of the Declaration of Independ¬ 
ence. The figures of the signers were startlingly life¬ 
like, and stood apart every one from the other. Amongst 
them was my mother’s grandfather, Francis Lewis. 
As the curtain rose, the Star-spangled Banner was 
sung by the company. They retired at its close, and I 
came forward from the back of the scene, passing in and 
out amongst the fathers of our country, until I stood in 
their centre. The address, by J. A. Requier, Esq.. 
was a stirring production. At the lines, — 


ADDRESS TO CHARLESTON VOLUNTEERS. 249 


“ Remember the deeds that your sires have done, 

Remember the worship your sires have won, 

Remember the present must soon be a past, 

And strike like your sires — they struck to the last! ” — 

when I pointed to the glorious host so admirably repre¬ 
sented around me, the excited volunteers started simul¬ 
taneously from their seats. It was long before their 
hurricane of responsive cheers would permit the address 
to proceed. 

In less than a week they departed, at the call of their 
country, on that expedition from which so few of the 
brave soldiers returned. In the words of the address, — 

“ Her voice bade them come with the steel and the targe, 

To stand at the onset and strike at the charge ! ” — 

and perhaps some of them remembered the assurance 
that the prayers of woman 

“ Shall watch o’er ye now; 

Her myrtles shall blossom — a braid on your brow ; 

And her tears shall be brighter, her blushes more sweet, 

To emblazon success, or to soften defeat.” 

Our engagement in Savannah was also under the 
management of Mr. Forbes. It was one upon which I 
look back with unmingled pleasure. At its close a 
committee of gentlemen, formed of the most distinguished 
residents, gave us a magnificent entertainment in token 
of their esteem. I record, with, I hope, a justifiable 
pride, the following extract from their note of invi¬ 
tation : — 

“ We take this method of at once expressing our 
thanks for the exquisite enjoyment you have afforded 
us in your various personations, and our high respect 
for you personally. A lady of your character and 
attainments elevates and adorns the stage; and we have 


‘253 


AUTOBIOGRAPHY OP AN ACTRESS. 


no doubt that your influence will be widely felt in puri¬ 
fying it from the abuses which sometimes mar its beau¬ 
ties, and that you will cause it to perform its proper 
task — 


‘ To raise the genius and to mend the heart/ 

“Accept, madam, the assurance of our most distin¬ 
guished regard, and believe that in no city will you 
have more ardent admirers and warmer friends than 
in ours.” 

Fashion was produced at Charleston, and after¬ 
wards at Mobile and New Orleans, with its usual good 
fortune. To be forced to enact the walking-lady 
character of Gertrude was a severe punishment. To 
escape its infliction, I always withheld the production 
of the comedy until the solicitations of the public and 
the managers left me no alternative. Could I have 
foreseen, at the time the play was written, that I should 
be induced to enter the profession, I would have been 
careful to create a character which I could imbody 
with pleasure. Yet it was a very few months after 
Fashion first appeared that I made my own debut . 

The public continued to entertain a strong desire that 
I should be supported upon the stage by one of my own 
countrymen. A committee of gentlemen waited upon 
Mr. Mo watt, in New Orleans, to request that some 
arrangement might be entered into with Mr. Murdoch 
to play opposite characters with me. Our contract 
with Mr. C-prevented the gratification of these gen¬ 

tlemen’s wishes. I proposed that we should select plays 

in which Mr. Murdoch and Mr. C-could both appear 

in parts of equal importance. An attempt was made to 
carry out the suggestion; but only one or two plays 




RELATIONSHIP OF ACTORS TO EACH OTHER. 251 


could be agreed upon, and the idea was necessarily 
abandoned. 

One amongst the many appearances in the profes¬ 
sion which are misunderstood by the public is the 
relationship which exists between actor and actor. The 
world, in general, cannot readily comprehend the total 
absence of all personal affinity, and at times of all ami¬ 
cable feeling, between them. When an audience are in 
the habit of seeing two persons frequently represent 
the characters of romantic lovers, — enthusiastic hus¬ 
band and wife, or devoted father and daughter, — they 
imagine that some slight degree of attachment must 
spring up between the parties — that the gentleman 
entertains at least a warm admiration for the lady. 
But, in reality, performers are constantly placed in the 
most affectionate stage relationship towards those whom 
they personally detest. The bitterest enemies enact 
Damon and Pythias with a fervor that cheats specta¬ 
tors into the belief that some bond must draw them 
intimately together in the walks of private life. 

It is related of an actress, who lived unhappily with 
her husband, that she delighted in personating the lov¬ 
ing Belvidera to his Jaffier, because it gave her an 
opportunity of inflicting certain feminine punishments 
upon him during the apparently tender embraces of the 
Venetian pair. I have faith in the story. 

In the course of one long engagement, I nightly 
enacted the betrothed — the wife, or the daughter — of 
a gentleman with whom Mr. Mowatt was at variance 
and to whom I never spoke. Any needful communica¬ 
tion at rehearsal was addressed to the prompter. At 
night, before the audience, he was the most impassioned 


252 


AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF AN ACTRESS. 


of knights, and I the tenderest of “ ladie loves ” — 
but one single step without the magic circle of the foot¬ 
lights, and we were utter strangers. Nor was this cool¬ 
ness the subject of surprise or remark behind the 
scenes. It was an everj-day occurrence in all theatres. 


CHAPTER XIV. 


Mr. Davenport. — Accident in Baltimore. — Second Southern Tour 

— Reading at Macon. — Columbus. — Montgomery. — First Ac¬ 
quaintance with Henry Clay. — His Recollections of Miss O'Neil. — 
His poetical Obliviousness. — Five Days on board of the Alexander 
Scott. — Clay's Injunction to me as we passed Memphis. — Mr. 
Davenports Entertainment of Mr. Clay. —Personation of a “ Down- 
east " Yankee. — Impromptu Song to Henry Clay. — Arrival at 
Louisville. — A last Farewell. — Opening of the Athenaeum at 
Cincinnati. — Inaugural Address. — Compliment to Mr. Davenport. 

— Close of my second Year on the Stage. — Armand. — A Sister¬ 
hood of Critics. — Mr. Mowatt's Visit to England to arrange with 
Managers. — Mr. Macready's Advice. — Engagement for Manches¬ 
ter. — Production of Armand at the Park Theatre and in Boston. 

— Last Night in America.—Letters from Henry Clay. — Sailing 
for Europe. 


My engagements for the first year concluded at New 

Orleans. Our contract with Mr. C-, which then 

came to an end, was not renewed. 

Edward L. Davenport, of Boston, was strongly recom¬ 
mended to Mr. Mowatt by old and leading members of 
the profession. His high moral character, his unassum¬ 
ing and gentleman-like manners, his wonderful versa¬ 
tility and indisputable talents, caused him to be selected 
as the person who was to travel with us during my 
second year on the stage. Upon this selection, every 
succeeding month and year gave us new cause for con¬ 
gratulation. The prominent position he has since won 
upon the English stage, and the honors he has received 
from fastidious English audiences, are the just reward 

( 253 ) 



254 


AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF AN ACTRESS. 


of intrinsic but most unostentatious merit. The Ameri¬ 
can public were doubly satisfied with the choice made 
of a professional associate, because Mr. Davenport is 
a countryman. 

We commenced our theatrical tour at Buffalo, and 
made the whole circuit of the United States. Another 
prosperous year crowned our exertions. Our engage¬ 
ments had but one interruption. That was occasioned 
by an accident which I unfortunately met with while 
performing in Baltimore. 

The play was the Honey Moon, in three acts. 
Juliana has several rapid changes of costume to effect. 
When I left the stage to dress for the last time, I darted 
off at full speed towards my dressing room. The lights 
behind the scenes were unusually dim. A sofa had 
carelessly been left in one of the passages. Some tired 
carpenter was stretched upon it in an attitude which 
Dickens would have described as peculiarly American. 
His feet protruded over one arm of the sofa in a some¬ 
what more elevated position than his head. My flight 
brought me suddenly in contact with a pair of heavy 
boots. The blow received was sc severe that I stag- 
gered back, and fell. I had not time to think whether 
or not I was injured. An actor is always impressed 
with the conviction that he has no right to private suf¬ 
ferings or emotions during a performance. I dressed 
hastily, and returned to the stage. The instant I began 
to speak I experienced a choking sensation, and it was 
with difficulty that I could give utterance to the neces 
sary words. I struggled on until the middle of the 
scene, and then was forced to whisper to Mr. Daven¬ 
port, who enacted the Duke, “ Cut the scene — 1 can’t 
speak! ” He imagined that I was suddenly taken ill, 


ACCIDENT AT BALTIMORE. 


2 55 


and did “ cut the scene .” We both, in stage parlance, 
“ came to cues ” — most remorselessly mangling the 
author. The play, nevertheless, seemed interminable, 
and when it ended I was forced to respond to the call 
before the curtain, though it was with difficulty that I 
could stand. 

We had scarcely reached home when the effect of 
the blow became apparent. A blood vessel had been 
ruptured, and I was nearly suffocated with the san¬ 
guineous stream that poured from my lips. According 
to my physician’s opinion, the rupture took place at the 
time the blow was received, and I had been enabled to 
keep back the evidence of the injury through a strong 
effort of will. This is only one of the myriad instances 
that could be given to prove what an actor can endure 
under the excitement of representation. 

I was, of course, unable to conclude my engagement, 
but this was the first I had ever broken. For a few days 
it was supposed that the injury was serious, but through 
the help of a vigorous constitution it proved otherwise. 
In a fortnight I was able to travel to Boston, and ap¬ 
peared as Juliet — a part which requires a superabun¬ 
dant amount of physical strength. 

Early in the autumn of this second year we com¬ 
menced our journey south. We acted in all the prin¬ 
cipal theatres until we reached Macon, on our Avay to 
Mobile. No theatre had yet been erected there, and 
we were solicited to give readings. I read one night to 
a full audience, and Mr. Davenport diversified the en¬ 
tertainment with songs. In Columbus we devoted an¬ 
other night, and another in Montgomery, to readings, 
intermingled with Mr. Davenport’s ballad singing. I 
greatly preferred the theatre to the lecture room, and 


256 


AUTOBIOGRAPHY OP AN ACTRESS. 


resolutely refused all solicitation to give a course of 
readings. In the lecture room I missed the friendly 
footlights, which form a barrier between the real and 
the ideal. I longed for the illusion — the self-forget¬ 
fulness. On the stage I was somebody else — in the 
lecture room I could not rise out of myself. 

Amongst the most agreeable reminiscences of this 
year are the visits of Henry Clay. We were fulfilling 
an engagement in New Orleans when he first called 
upon me. It chanced that my history was well known 
to him. He took a deep interest in my professional 
exertions, and his encouragement was not sparingly 
bestowed. One day he gave me a glowing description 
of Miss O’Neil’s Juliet, especially of the naivete and fer¬ 
vor of her balcony scene. But when he attempted to 
quote the passages w r hich had impressed him, I could 
not help laughing involuntarily at his odd deviations 
from the text. 

“ I dare say I am misquoting ,” he remarked y apolo¬ 
getically. “ I never could remember a line of poetry.” 

I had to admit that his version of Juliet differed con¬ 
siderably from the one which popular prejudice had 
adopted — nor could I flatter him by saying that he 
improved upon Shakspeare. 

He then told me that it was a singular fact, and one 
which had been a subject of regret through his whole 
life, that he could not by any effort retain verse in his 
memory. Even if he studied a poem by rote, in a few 
days the lines would be wholly effaced from the mental 
tablet on which they had been laboriously written. He 
related to me an anecdote in painful illustration of this 
peculiarity. He was making some public address, — I 
think it was a Fourth of July oration, — during the 


MR. CLAY’S POETICAL OBLIVIOUSNESS. 257 

course of which he purposed quoting the well-known 
lines, — 

“ Lives there a man with soul so dead 
Who never to himself hath said, 

This is my own, my native land ? ” 

Declaiming warmly, he gave enthusiastic utterance to 
the line,— 

“ Lives there a man with soul so dead.” 

But the poetic page suddenly became a blank—he 
could not remember another word. He paused — then 
repeated the line with more patriotic ardor than before. 
He thought the second line would “ come to him ” by 
means of the repetition — but it came not. He put his 
hand to his forehead, trying to think what the man did 
“ whose soul was so dead ” — but the evidence of that 
individual’s torpid essence would not develop itself in 
metre. For the third time he asked the question em¬ 
phatically, not to say despairingly, — 

* “ Lives there a man with soul so dead,” — 

and must have paused mid way in his query, had not a 
voice from the crowd continued, in a stage whisper, — 

“ Who never to himself hath said.” 

The oblivious statesman caught the words, and thank¬ 
fully finished his quotation. He determined, in future, 
to ornament his orations with few of these slippery 
gems of the poet. 

Our next engagement took us to Vicksburg, but at 
its close we rejoined Henry Clay on board of the Alex¬ 
ander Scott. We passed five days in this floating palace 
on our way to Louisville. Henry Clay was cheered 
wherever we stopped, and answering cheers were sent 
17 


258 


AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF AN ACTRESS. 


back from the boat. In these the ladies now and then 
joined. 

I was standing beside him when we arrived at Mem¬ 
phis. He turned to me, and said, “ Have you ever ap¬ 
peared here ? ” 

I replied in the negative. 

He remarked, “ This western Memphis makes more 
gigantic progress than any town I know. She will be 
the queen city of the west by and by. Never pass 
here again without appearing.” 

I answered that I would not. It was six years before 
I saw Memphis once more; but I kept my word. My 
appearance was rendered a brief one through sudden 
indisposition. I remember with regret the improbability 
that I shall ever stand before a genial Memphis audi¬ 
ence again. 

Henry Clay passed a large portion of his time in the 
ladies’ saloon. The bearing of our lofty-minded states¬ 
man, though always dignified, was characterized by 
extremest courtesy — courtesy to the lowest as *well as 
the highest. He conversed freely upon all subjects, and 
with the fluency for which he was distinguished. 

“ Aged ears played truant with his tales, 

And younger hearings were quite ravished 
With his discourse.” 

We were one day discussing Lafayette’s visit to 
this country. Some jocular estimate was made of the 
number of ladies whom he had affectionately saluted. 
Clay remarked, that “ kissing was like the presidency; 
it was not to be sought, and not to be declined .” The 
natural inference from this remark was, that he would 
not oppose the wishes of his party if they again offered 
his name as a presidential candidate. The conclusion 
did not prove erroneous. 


THE “DOWN-EAST” YANKEE. 


259 


He recounted to me a number of anecdotes illustra¬ 
tive of the manner in which his friends demonstrated 
their grief at the great whig defeat. Some of the most 
pathetic of these stories had still a touch of the ludi¬ 
crous ; but he seemed to feel most deeply the manifesta¬ 
tions of attachment of which he was the object. 

Many of the passengers exerted themselves to enter¬ 
tain a fellow-traveller whom every one seemed to treat 
as his own particular and honored guest; but none 
contributed so largely to his amusement as Mr. Daven¬ 
port. He sang comic, patriotic, and sentimental songs, 
and recited humorous sketches, in which five or six dif¬ 
ferent characters were personated. One evening he 
entered the saloon disguised as a “ down-east ” Yankee. 
I must say, by way of parenthesis, that his Yankee was 
a stage representative of Yankee land — a broad but 
telling caricature of the reality. He wore a red wig, 
striped pantaloons that maintained a respectable dis¬ 
tance from his ancles, a short jacket, and a flame-colored 
cravat. He carried his hands deeply thrust in his 
pockets, as though they had an evident inclination to 
approach his knees. His “jog-along” gait could only 
have originated in New England. 

He was not recognized when he entered the cabin. 
The passengers supposed him to be some person who 
had just come on board. He commenced talking, with 
a nasal intonation, in a loud and familiar manner, and 
asking “ oceans of questions.” He gave Mr. Mowatt 
(who was in the secret) a nudge, and accosted him 
with, “ Stranger, I hear that’s Harry Clay ; I guess I’ll 
scrape acquaintance with him, if you’ll do the polite 
thing.” 

Mr. Mowatt presented the Yankee gentleman to Mr. 


260 


AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF AN ACTRESS. 


Clay. The impudent speeches of the “ downeaster ” to 
the “ best representative of republican royalty,” as the 
Yankee designated the statesman, convulsed the passen¬ 
gers with laughter. Mr. Clay joined in the contagious 
merriment. Dreading that these personalities might 
give offence, I took occasion to whisper to him the 
Yankee’s history, and the name which he inherited 
from his father. Mr. Clay heartily lent himself to the 
joke. 

On the day that we reached Louisville, the passen¬ 
gers requested me to present our eminent countryman 
with some poetical tribute in commemoration of our 
journey. I wrote an impromptu song, which was set 
to music by Mr. Davenport, and sung by him when the 
passengers assembled in the cabin to take farewell of 
the statesman. 

Mr. Clay made a point of publicly and very gracious¬ 
ly thanking Mr. Davenport for the genuine diversion 
his talents had afforded us all. He wrote in his pocket 
book a few kind and complimentary lines, of which the 
gratified actor might well be proud. 

We were stepping on shore, when Mr. Clay came 
up to me, and said, “ I have just been very much 
touched. You know the owners and officers of this 
boat are all democrats ; yet they have refused to take 
any fare for me or my party. I don’t know when a 
trifling circumstance has moved me so much.” The 
tears were standing in his eyes as he spoke. 

I received two visits from him during the day we 
were in Louisville. He then travelled to Lexington, 
and we took the steamboat to Cincinnati. We ex¬ 
changed several letters after this, and I had many evi¬ 
dences that his interest remained unabated ; but we 


CINCINNATI. 


261 


never met again. The next time I visited Louisville, 
my drawing-room window in the hotel was decked in 
remembrance of Henry Clay; for his funeral proces¬ 
sion was passing through the streets. 

Mr. Davenport and myself had never appeared in 
Cincinnati. We were engaged to open the Athenae¬ 
um. The manager had nobly determined to banish 
from this theatre all the abuses that degrade the drama. 
The public gave him their hearty cooperation. No in¬ 
augural address had been prepared. I was expected 
to deliver one, and the manager coolly informed me 
that he presumed, of course, I would write it myself. 
It wanted but two days of the opening of the theatre, 
and the address had not only to be composed, but com¬ 
mitted to memory. It is a well-known fact, that an 
author can remember the language of another person 
with far greater ease than his own. I accomplished my 
forced task, and by an emphatic delivery made the 
most of what I had written; but no applause could com¬ 
pensate me for the nervous miseries incident upon rapid 
composition, quick study, and the compulsatory utter¬ 
ance of one’s own consciously crude thoughts. The 
house was opened under the most propitious auspices. 
Those were palmy days for the Athenasum. Reen¬ 
gagement followed reengagement, and the seats (there 
were no boxes) were nightly crowded with a class of 
the community who had never before been seen within 
the walls of a theatre. 

Mr. Davenport became an especial favorite. On the 
day of his departure he was presented, by the young 
men of the city, with a gold watch and chain; the for¬ 
mer bearing a complimentary inscription. 

This engagement closed my second year upon the 


262 


AUTOBIOGRAPHY OP AN ACTRESS. 


stage — a year as eminently successful, and more replete 
with happiness than the first. I had gained mental and 
physical strength; improved in health; become inured 
to the thousand desagremens , the discomforts, the end¬ 
less vexations, and unavoidable fatigues of the pro¬ 
fession ; and I had watched the frown of disapproval 
slowly melting away from faces that I loved, and the 
benignest of smiles dawning in its place. 

Every actress who gains celebrity is tolerably sure 
of being courted and feted, inundated with poems, com¬ 
plimentary letters, flowers, rich gifts. These things 
seem to be the inevitable consequences — I might say 
the conventional accessories — of her public position. 
But if her sorrows have taught her to distinguish tinsel 
from gold, these hollow evidences of mere popularity 
can afford little real, little internal satisfaction. 

If she have tasted of the tree of knowledge of the world , 
and been gifted with dearly-bought insight into realities, 
she knows that those who lavish these gifts and bestow 
these favors are oftener actuated by self-love than by 
love of her. They bow to the rising star because its 
effulgence is reflected back upon its votaries. 

This is a bitter lesson for prosperity to teach ; but, 
like other bitters, it possesses restorative virtues. It is 
the wholesome tonic that reinvigorates the spirit which 
flatteries debilitate. 

At the close of this second professional year, Mr. 
Mowatt sailed for Europe to make arrangements with 
London managers for our appearance in the English 
metropolis. I returned to that roof where I was most 
certain of passing peaceful and happy days — my 
father’s! 

During this summer I wrote Armand, a five-act 


FEMININE CRITICS. 


263 


drama. The play *vas engaged by the manager of the 
Park Theatre, and a time fixed for its production, before 
a line had been written. The plot is not strictly his¬ 
torical, but it has some slight historical foundation. 
The part of Armand was, professionally speaking, meas¬ 
ured for Mr. Davenport, and suited to his vigorous and 
impulsive style of acting. Blanche I designed to per¬ 
sonate myself. 

Every scene, as it was completed, I read aloud to a 
little circle of feminine critics. They were my sisters, 
most of whom had been gathered from their scattered 
homes to greet the one amongst their number who had 
for two years been a wanderer. Their.critical acumen 
was, of course, tempered by considerable leniency; but 
the critic’s prerogative was not wholly abandoned. 
Sometimes they savagely condemned a situation, or in¬ 
sisted that a passage should be wholly expunged; and, 
now and then, they pertinaciously objected to laugh or 
weep at the expected moment. I generally adopted 
their suggestions ; but, assuming an air of mock dignity, 
I seldom failed to remind the exulting denunciators 
that Moliere was guided by the opinions of his washer¬ 
woman. 

Mr. Mowatt consulted with Mr. Macready. Mr. 
Macready thought it impolitic for my first appearance 
to be made in London. The provincial theatres, he 
said, were the seminaries of the London institutions. 
If an actor obtained decided celebrity in the provinces, 
he would, as a matter of course, receive advantageous 
offers from London managers. Mr. Macready pro¬ 
posed that I should play a round of engagements in the 
English provinces, and wait until my abilities had been 
fully tested and I had received a summons to London. 


264 


AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF AN ACTRESS. 


Mr. Mowatt was convinced of the vysdom of his advice, 
and entered into an engagement with Mr. Knowles, 
manager of the Theatre Royal, Manchester, for the ap¬ 
pearance of Mr. Davenport and myself on the 7th of 
December, 1847. 

Armand was completed shortly after Mr. Mow- 
att’s return to this country, and was produced at the 
Park Theatre September 27, 1847. The Broadway 
Theatre, then just erected opened on the same night, 
and offered a strong counter attraction; yet the new 
play drew a full audience to the Park. Mr. Davenport’s 
personation of Armand gained him fresh laurels. 
I was too nervous, and too much tormented with anx¬ 
ieties for the success of the play, to imbody the char¬ 
acter of Blanche to my own satisfaction. But none 
could know, as I myself knew, how far my representa¬ 
tion fell short of my own creation. The success of 
Fashion had prepared the audience to receive Ar¬ 
mand with marked favor. As the curtain dropped 
upon the fifth act, a heavy weight of doubt and respon¬ 
sibility fell from my heart. Judgment had been passed 
upon the new candidate for popular approval, and I had 
cause to rejoice at the verdict. 

The play was acted every night until the close of our 
engagement. Immediately afterwards it was produced 
in Boston, and received with unequivocal warmth. This 
Boston engagement was our farewell in America. On 
the last night— it was my benefit night — the play was 
Armand, when I appeared upon the stage, and lis¬ 
tened to a greeting even more than ordinarily enthusias¬ 
tic: a multitude of recollections suddenly broke upon 
me, sweeping away my composure in their strong cur¬ 
rent. Thoughts of my first public appearance, made 


LAST NIGHT IN AMERICA. 


265 


in Boston — of the varied trials since that day of hope 
and promise — of the new ordeal through which I was 
about to pass — of the possibility that I might never 
stand before this well-beloved audience again — crowded 
upon my mind with bewildering force. It was the first 
time since I became an actress that any personal emo¬ 
tion had gained sufficient mastery to interfere with my 
interpretation of the character I represented. Tears 
are unbecoming at all times. Red and swollen eyes, to 
say nothing of other disfigurements consequent upon 
weeping, were particularly inappropriate to the joyous 
May Queen. Mrs. Maywood, who was playing my 
nurse, Babette, as she encircled me with her arms, 
intermingled her whispered words of consolation with 
this womanly hint. There are moments when a per¬ 
former has a magnetic perception of the pulse throb- 
bings of his audience, and knows that they beat in unison 
with his own. I felt that there were answering sympa¬ 
thies around me, and was certain that the “ red eyes,” 
which my good Babette thought so frightful, would be 
pardoned. 

On the 1st of November, 1847, we sailed from Bos¬ 
ton for Liverpool, in the Cambria, commanded by 
Captain Judkins. Mr. Davenport accompanied us. 
His support had been found so advantageous, during 
his first year, that he was engaged for a second. 

We were, of course, well provided with introductory 
letters Henry Clay sent me one to the Earl of Car¬ 
lisle, and another to the American minister, Mr. Ban¬ 
croft. They were neither mere formal letters of intro¬ 
duction. In the latter, he makes a graceful allusion to 
the difference of politics between himself and this gen¬ 
tleman. There were subjects of private interest upon 


‘266 


AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF AN ACTRESS. 


which he hoped that their opinions would not be at 
variance. I quote the concluding portion of the letter 
in which this was enclosed: — 

“ Many, many thanks for the friendly sentiments 
towards me contained in your letter. A member of 
my family snatched Evelyn from me to peruse; and 
owing to that cause, and for want of time, I have not 
yet read it. I shall go into it with such partiality for its 
authoress as to disqualify me as a critic, if otherwise I 
was, what I happen not to be, a competent judge. 

“ May honor, fame, pleasure, and riches be your re¬ 
ward in England, with a safe and happy return to our 
own dear country.” 

Just before we sailed I received another letter from 
Mr. Clay, in which these words occur: — 

“ I have read, with much delight, the quotations from 
Armand. Don’t let the duties of the actress engross 
all your time, but leave a fair portion of it for those of 
the authoress. 

“ May God protect, preserve, and prosper you while 
absent, and bring you back, with increased fame and 
renown, in safety to our dear country.” 


CHAPTER XV. 


Arrival in Liverpool. — The Rev. Mr. S - n and Mrs. S - n. — Man* 

Chester Critics. — First Rehearsal at Theatre Royal , Manchester. — 
First Night in England. — Manchester Guardian. — Engage - 
mentat Princesses' Theatre, London. — Distressing Rehearsals .— 
The two Helens. — Miss Susan Cushman. — Visitation from the 
Mistress of the Wardrobe. —Petty Miseries. —The Trials of a first 
Night.—First Attack of “ Stage Fright — A near Approach to 
Failure. — Sudden Transition. — Success at the Eleventh Hour. 


A succession of violent gales rendered our voyage 
more than ordinarily perilous. The sight of land glad¬ 
dened our eyes on the fifteenth day. On arriving in 
Liverpool, we found that the Cambria was reported to 
have been wrecked off Cape Race. The ship lost was 
the packet Stephen Philip, with ninety-one passengers. 

A portion of our engine was broken during the pas¬ 
sage, and we lay still seven hours while it was repairing. 
We met with no other accident. The stormy voyage 
brought vividly to mind the terrible recollections of my 
childhood — the shipwreck and the loss of my young 
brother. But I was too thoroughly a victim to mal de 
mer to be susceptible even of fear. 

We remained a week in Liverpool, that X might re¬ 
cover from the effects of this oppressive sea malady, 
and then left for Manchester. 

First and firmest amongst the friends we made in a 
foreign land were the Rev. Mr. S-n and his wife. 

Mr. S-n had, for many years, been pastor of a New 

( 267 ) 




268 


AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF AN ACTRESS. 


Church society in Manchester. I pause when I would 
write of these revered friends, and my mind fills with 
affectionate and grateful remembrances. I need not 
here record all the evidences we received of a valuable 
and energetic friendship. They are registered in a 
more lasting chronicle, to the pages of which I often 
turn. 

Previous to our debut , Mrs. S-n entertained un¬ 

disguised fears that we would receive harsh treatment 
at the hands of the proverbially caustic Manchester 
critics. She called upon the most ascetic of the cynical 
brotherhood, to “smooth the raven down” by interesting 
him in my history. The experiment was only calcu¬ 
lated to render him more uncompromising. In another 
field she was more successful. Her womanly efforts 
raised me up an army of defenders amongst the mem¬ 
bers of her husband’s congregation. They were pre¬ 
pared to support me if I betrayed the faintest glimmer¬ 
ing of genius. 

Another anxious friend called upon the theatrical 
critic of the Manchester Guardian, the leading oracle 
of the press, and offered to present him to me. The 
cautious and conscientious critic declined the introduction 
until after my debut , remarking that a personal acquaint¬ 
ance might prepossess him in my favor, and interfere 
with the justice of his criticism. And of such judges 
was the tribunal composed before which we were to be 
sifted, scanned, and tested. In such hands was placed 
Distinction’s 

“ Broad and powerful fan,” 

that, 

“ Puffing at all, winnows the light away.” 

If our talents fell short in their “ fair proportions ” of 



FIRST REHEARSAL IN ENGLAND. 


269 


some fabulous or imaginary standard, we were to be 
annihilated by a paragraph — stabbed by thrusts of 
steel in the form of pens — exterminated by the simoom 
of a critic’s breath. Pleasant auguries, these, to usher 
in our career in a land of strangers. 

The theatre was a remarkably beautiful one. The 
play selected for our debut was, as usual, the Lady of 
Lyons. Our only rehearsal took place on the day of 
performance. We could not but notice the half sneer 
that flitted across the faces of the English actors during 
that rehearsal. They were incredulous as to our abil¬ 
ities, and, perhaps, not without some cause. Now and 
then there was a contemptuous intonation in their 
voices that seemed to rebuke us for presumption. 
Their shafts “ hit, but hurt not.” Our American inde¬ 
pendence was an tegis, from which the arrows fell with¬ 
out producing any effect but merriment. No hand of 
welcome was extended — no word of encouragement 
was spoken to the intruding “Yankees.” We were 
surrounded by an atmosphere of impenetrable frigidity. 
And yet there were, no doubt, kind hearts among the 
doubters. But the “stars” were transatlantic, and 
their light was unacknowledged in that hemisphere. 
Even the subordinates of the theatre gave it as their 
private opinion that these new luminaries would be 
extinguished without trouble. 

At night, when the curtain rose upon Pauline, the 
greeting of the audience said plainly, “ Let us see what 
you can do! ” and it said nothing more. Claude re¬ 
ceived the same gracious though promiseless permission. 
But even that greeting assured us of that downright 
generous trait in John Bull which makes him the 
fairest of umpires, even where he is a party to the con- 


270 


AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF AN ACTRESS. 


test. Once make it plain that lie is beaten, as in the 
case of the trial with the New York yacht, and he will 
huzza for the victor as vociferously as he would have 
done for himself had he been on the winning side. 

Before the fall of the curtain on the fourth act, it 
was decided that the “ stars ” were not to be “ put out.” 
At the fall on the fifth, they had taken an honorable 
place in the theatrical firmament, and were allowed to 
shine with undisputed light. 

The heartiness of the call before the curtain, at the 
conclusion of the play, atoned for the shyness of our 
reception. Mr. Davenport thanked the audience in a 
speech eloquent with genuine feeling. 

And now a marvellous change suddenly took place 
in the deportment of the actors towards us. There was 
a “ making way ” for the successful candidates to public 
favor — a looking up to instead of the looking down on 
them. Sneers and innuendoes were magically converted 
into smiles and congratulations. There were even 
speculations afloat concerning the “hit” that we would 
make upon a London stage. 

The debutants had been as cheerful as could be ex¬ 
pected over the distrust and disdain with which they 
had been treated in the morning; and they were now 
able to be unaffectedly merry at the equally unlooked- 
for courtesies lavished upon them at night. 

The next morning the critics were unanimous in 
commendation — with the exception of the Exam¬ 
iner, whom Mrs. S-n had attempted to disarm of his 

ferocity. But he was harmlessly savage, and reluctant¬ 
ly admitted that the American candidates had gained a 
foothold in the affections of the English public. 

The Guardian — reputed to be the critic of first 



MANCHESTER GUARDIAN. 


271 


importance in Manchester — prefaced his criticism with 
the following paragraph : — 

“ Mrs. Mowatt and Mr. Davenport, the American Ac¬ 
tors. — Exaggeration of a peculiar kind, if not rant, has been so 
uniformly a characteristic of all the American actors whom we have 
seen, that we have been induced to view it as an attribute of the 
American stage. That it is not an inseparable attribute, the chas¬ 
tened style of the artists named above, who made their English 
d£but at our Theatre Royal on Monday evening, in the Lady of 
Lyons, satisfactorily demonstrates. 

“ Mrs. Mowatt, judging from the accounts of her which the Ameri¬ 
can papers have occasionally furnished, is highly endowed with in¬ 
tellect, the cultivation and exercise of which have by no means 
been neglected, either in the departments of dramatic or general 
literature; indeed, in this respect, we know of none of our English 
actresses who stand a comparison with her except Mrs. Butler. Let 
us add, that Mrs. Mowatt has a most engaging person, — slight in 
form, features capable alike of gentle and forcible expression, a 
voice of silvery sweetness, —and that her bearing is marked by re¬ 
finement, and then we have said enough to prove that she has 
qualifications for the stage of a high order. 

“ Mr. Davenport has a manly person, easy deportment, and an 
elocution very smooth and agreeable.” 

Then follows a long and elaborate critique on the 
Lady of Lyons, the manner in which it is represented 
by Mr. Macready and Miss Faucit, and finally by 
ourselves. 

We appeared every night for a fortnight. At the 
close of the engagement, the manager informed us that 
Mr. Maddox, of the Princesses’ Theatre, desired to 
enter into an arrangement for our appearance in Lon¬ 
don. This was precisely what we most desired. 

A few days after our arrival in the great metropolis 
all preliminaries were settled, and we engaged to ap¬ 
pear at the Princesses’ Theatre on the 5th of January, 
1848, and to play alternate nights with Madame Thil- 


272 


AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF AN ACTRESS. 


Ion for six weeks. I was thus relieved from the 
necessity of acting every night, and afforded an op¬ 
portunity for needful rest and even more requisite 
study. 

We selected the Lady of Lyons, as on previous oc¬ 
casions, for our opening play. The cost of its produce 
tion in London was twenty pounds. This sum gave a 
theatre the right of performance for the whole season. 
The author demanded the same sum if the play were 
enacted for a single night. The manager of the Prin¬ 
cesses’ objected to so expensive a selection. The usual 
price paid to an author for the representation of a five- 
act drama is two guineas per night. After manifold 
discussions and endless canvassing of the merits of va¬ 
rious plays, we consented to make our debut in the 
Hunchback of James Sheridan Knowles. 

Our first rehearsal in an English provincial theatre 
had not proved particularly delightful. But it was a 
foreshadowing of, and a needful preparation for, the 
more aggravated, temper-trying inflictions that awaited 
us at a London rehearsal. The stage aristocrats of the 
company made no effort to conceal their absolute con¬ 
tempt for the American aspirants. 

Figuratively speaking, we were made to walk through 
a lane of nettles, so narrow that we could not avoid get¬ 
ting scratched. The more gently they were touched, 
the more deeply they stung. At the request, politely 
urged, of “ Be so good as to cross to the right — I 
occupy the left” — the answer dryly returned was, 
“ Excuse me; I played this part originally with Mrs. 
Butler, at Drury Lane — I always kept this position — 
it is the proper situation.” Then there was a signifi¬ 
cant look at the prompter, which said, “ This republican 
dust offends us ! We must get rid of it! ” 


A DISTRESSING REHEARSAL. 


27a 


The more mildly Mr. Davenport and myself uttered 
our unavoidable requests, the more decidedly we were 
answered with objections to our wishes, founded upon 
the authority of some mighty precedent. Neither pa¬ 
tience nor gentleness could disarm our antagonists. 
Wearied out with hearing that Mrs. Butler sat during 
her delivery of a certain speech, and, therefore, that 
nobody else could stand — or that Miss Faucit fainted 
with her head leaning forwards, and, therefore, no 
Julia could faint with her head inclined backwards 
— or that Mrs. Kean threw herself at a certain point 
into the arms of Master Walter, and, therefore, the em¬ 
brace was a necessity — I at last boldly, and, I confess* 
with some temper, said, “ Sir, when I have made up 
my mind to become the mere imitator of Mrs. Butler, 
or of Miss Faucit, or of Mrs. Kean, I shall, perhaps, 
come to you for instruction. At present, it is for the 
public to decide upon the faultiness of my conception. 

I shall not alter it, in spite of the very excellent author¬ 
ity you have cited.” 

This determined declaration (it was certainly a “ dec¬ 
laration of independence”) silenced my principal tor¬ 
mentor. He made up his mind that, if I was wanting 
in talent, I was not deficient in spirit. He would have 
bowed before the one, but he at least yielded to the 
other. 

But this was not my only or most serious annoyance. 
Miss Susan Cushman was to enact the character of 
Helen. She sent an apology for her absence at re- . 
hearsal on the plea of indisposition. The manager 
chose to imagine that she entertained some theatrical 
jealousy towards a countrywoman, and purposed to ab¬ 
sent herself on the night of our first appearance. No 
18 


274 


AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF AN ACTRESS. 


substitute for so important a part as Helen could be 
provided at short notice, and the play would necessarily 
have to be withdrawn — the anticipated debut post¬ 
poned. 

I see no reason for supposing that Miss Cushman 
meditated any such unamiable intentions as were attrib¬ 
uted to her by the manager. We were very slightly 
acquainted, but our intercourse had been agreeable. 

Miss Cushman’s name was unceremoniously expunged 
from the “cast;” and Miss Emmeline Montague, the 
leading lady of the theatre, was persuaded by Mr. Mad¬ 
dox to undertake the role of Helen. 

, At the last rehearsal, for we had several, just as Miss 
Montague commenced rehearsing, Miss Susan Cushman 
walked upon the stage. She inquired by what right 
the character belonging to her was given to another 
lady. The manager, who was not celebrated for a con¬ 
ciliatory demeanor towards his company, bluntly in¬ 
formed her of his suspicions. An angry scene ensued, 
such as I never before, and I rejoice to say never after , 
witnessed in any theatre. Rehearsal was interrupted. 
I sat down at the prompter’s table in a most unenviable 
state of mind. The actors stood in clusters around the 
wings, enjoying the dispute. Miss Cushman and Mr. 
Maddox occupied the stage. A casual spectator might 
have supposed they were rehearsing some tempestuous 
passages of a melodrama. Miss Cushman declared that 
she would play Helen, for that she had done nothing to 
forfeit her right to the performance. Mr. Maddox 
maintained that the part should be played by Miss 
Montague. Miss Cushman was very naturally exasper¬ 
ated. I remained silent, but internally wishing that 
the disputants might suddenly disappear through some 


FIRST NIGHT IN A LONDON THEATRE. 275 


of the trap doors that checkered the stage and were 
devoted to the use of fairies and hobgoblins. 

Finally Mr. Maddox ordered that the stage should be 
cleared and rehearsal continued. Miss Cushman was 
forced to retire. Just as she reached the wing, she 
turned back and offered me her hand. I gave her mine 
— she departed, and rehearsal proceeded. This ex¬ 
traordinary scene in the drama of real life thoroughly 
unnerved and unfitted me for the business of the hour; 
and that night I was to make my London debut! 

I had not recovered from the painful excitement 
when I drove to the theatre in the evening to dress for 
the performance of Julia. How shall I describe the 
petty miseries, the mountain of vexation, made up of 
“unconsidered trifles,” that rendered that night un¬ 
speakably wretched ? Who does not know how much 
easier it is to endure a great and actual trial than the 
pin-pricks of accumulated annoyances ? 

Shivering with cold, I entered the dreary “ star dress¬ 
ing room.” My newly-engaged maid awaited me. She 
was a quiet, timid, middle-aged woman, and appeared 
nearly as nervous as myself. 

“ Is there no fire ? ” I inquired, with chattering teeth. 

“ This stove smokes, ma’am; and the ladies com¬ 
plain so much that I was afraid to have it lighted.” 

“ But I shall freeze while I am dressing ! ” 

The good woman looked distressed, and seemed to 
think it very likely. 

Just at this moment the mistress of the wardrobe 
entered with some dresses which she had persuaded me 
to let her alter, that they might be more in accordance 
with English taste. In a somewhat authoritative tone, 
she bade the maid light all the gas burners, informing 


276 


AUTOBIOGRAPHY OP AN ACTRESS. 


me that they would sufficiently heat the room. They 
soon created an unwholesome warmth, which was, how¬ 
ever, more endurable than absolute cold. 

The mistress of the wardrobe, to my surprise and 
annoyance, seemed prepared to make herself at home in 
my comfortless apartment. At all events, it was more 
than I could do. She had belonged to the theatre a 
number of years, and had complacently passed judg¬ 
ment on all the “ stars ” whose transitory light had 
illumined that firmament. Her loquacity nearly deaf¬ 
ened me; but she was a personage of too much im¬ 
portance to be coolly requested to leave the room. 

I did venture a gentle hint, by remarking, signifi¬ 
cantly, “I think I must begin to dress soon” — but I 
was defeated by the quiet tone of acquiescence with 
which she replied, “ I think you must, or you wo’nt 
be ready.” 

I thought of Sinbad the sailor, and the old man of 
the sea upon his shoulders, who could not be shaken oflf. 
I began, to dress. My unwelcome visitor poured forth 
one unceasing stream of gossip as she watched me. 
Now and then she directed or chid the timid maid, but 
never attempted to assist her. I prepared to arrange 
my hair. 

“ Aren’t you going to have a hair dresser ? ” inquired 
my tormentor, looking aghast at my evident intention 
of being my own coiffeur. 

“No. I always dress my own hair! ” 

“Well, now, let’s see what you’re going to make of 
it! What a heap of hair you’ve got, to be sure ! ” 

A heap of hair! I was inclined to be vain of the 
length and abundance of my hair — I may make the 
admission now. I looked at her, — I will not describe 


A TORMENTING VISITOR. 


277 


in what manner, — but I might as well have looked at 
the Great Mogul, under the delusion that he would be 
awed. The “ heap of hair ” was rapidly divided into a 
single row of ringlets that fell to the waist. 

“ You’re not going to leave your hair in that wild 
fashion ? ” 

“To be sure I am — I constantly wear it so.” 

“ Good gracious! the audience will guy you ! ” 

“ Guy me ? ” 

“ Why, yes — guy you — guy you ! — they will! ” 

“ Guy me ? What do you mean by guy ? ” I asked, 
becoming alarmed, in spite of myself, at the unknown 
horror. 

“ Why, laugh at you, to be sure — and chaff you! ” 

“ Chaff me?” 

“ Yes; clap their hands, as if they thought it was 
very pretty, and all the time be guying you. Don’t you 
know about the fifth of November — Guy Fawkes’s day 
— when they carry a guy about the streets to make 
sport of ? That’s guying ! ” 

This was a novel style of gunpowder plot, and I was 
standing over the train which my ringlets were to 
ignite! 

I turned from the glass, which reflected a face not 
very amiable in its expression, and commenced dress¬ 
ing. 

“ Wait a moment! wait a moment! I have forgotten 
something!” said my persecutor, and ran out of the 
room. 

She returned in a moment, and handed me a wadded 
jupon , very dexterously made to amplify and round the 
form. 

“ I made this for you to wear^ for I noticed you 


278 


AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF AN ACTRESS. 


hadn’t much more figure than a beanstalk. You look 
as if a breath of air would blow you away.” 

It was true that I was, at that period, excessively 
thin — my weight being less than ninety pounds, 
although I was slightly above the medium height. 

I looked doubtfully at this new and ingenious appli¬ 
ance of the toilet, but was finally persuaded to try its 
effect. To my own eyes the added breadth gave me a 
disproportioned appearance, rendering the waist wasp¬ 
ish, and the shoulders too narrow. I was assured that 
it was a great improvement, and made me look less in¬ 
significant. There was no time for alteration; the 
“ call boy ” had tapped at the door, and given the sum¬ 
mons, “Julia, you are called.” At the same moment, 
Mr. Mowatt came to conduct me to the entrance, where 
the Helen of the evening stood waiting. 

Helen and Julia enter together. As we advanced 
from the back of the stage, we were greeted with re¬ 
peated rounds of applause. But it was reasonable to 
suppose that one half of the welcome was intended for 
Miss Montague, a lady who, for her talents and her pri¬ 
vate virtues, was held in deservedly high esteem. 

For the first time I comprehended the full meaning 
of the mystical words, “ stage fright.” My moment 
de peur had come at last. The malady had seized 
me, and in its worst form. With my first attempt to 
acknowledge the salutation of the audience, I lost 

“ The ease 

That marks security to please.” 

I could not force my quivering lips into a smile; 
when I spoke, I could not hear the sound of my own 
voice; floating mists were dancing before my eyes; I 
saw three faces of Helen instead of one. What 


FIRST ATTACK OF STAGE FRIGHT. 


279 


was the matter with my feet ? When I tried to walk, 
the tiny links of some invisible chain bound them to¬ 
gether. And my limbs — why could not the most reso¬ 
lute effort prevent their tremulous motion H My very 
hair, as it touched my shoulders, seemed to have a 
clammy, Medusa-like coil. Mechanically, meaninglessly 
I uttered the words of the part, and gazed at the trip¬ 
licated Helen with a vacant stare. Not a hand of 
applause was raised for Julia through that first act—• 
nor through the second — nor through the third — 
though the author has, afforded manifold opportunities 
of making “ points.” I had never before failed, at 
certain bursts of passion, to elicit the responsiveness of 
the audience. But I could make no bursts. Like an 
automaton, I moved inanimately through the part. 
I seemed to myself gradually sinking on a shoreless 
sea, in a dead calm, — the sea of public condemnation, — 
without the power to grasp even at a straw. 

The fourth act commenced. Master Walter leads 
the penitent Julia through the sumptuous halls of her 
affianced bridegroom’s mansion. A mirror is supposed 
to be seen in the distance. Master Walter bids Julia 
look at the reflected image of the mistress, in anticipa¬ 
tion, of these splendors. At rehearsal, Master Walter 
had asked me, as he was in courtesy bound to do, on 
which side I preferred the imaginary mirror to be situ¬ 
ated. I answered, on the left. It is often confusing, 
even to very old actors, to have the “ sides,” on which 
they have been accustomed to act, unexpectedly 
changed. Did Master Walter remember this when he 
deliberately crossed the stage, and pointed me out the 
mirror on the right ? I was ungenerous enough to 
fancy he did. 


280 


AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF AN ACTRESS. 


Master Walter hands Julia a chair, and seats himself 
beside her. At the words, — 

“ O happy steed. 

My heart bounds at the thought of thee! Thou comest 

To bear the page from bonds to liberty ! ” — 

Julia springs joyfully from her seat. The action is 
so natural that it can hardly be avoided. Master Wal¬ 
ter had handed me the chair. I sat down. He took 
another chair, gazed at me mournfully for a moment, 
then deliberately (but unconsciously , I hope) placed 
it upon my flowing train, and seated himself. To 
start up at the required moment, without leaving the 
train behind me, would have been impossible. I en¬ 
deavored to disengage the folds without interrupting his 
history of the “ princess and page,” but unsuccessfully. 
I tried to attract his attention to the mishap, but he was 
rapt in his part. I had no alternative but to utter 
the required lines without attempting to start up, and 
to wait patiently until he thought proper to rise and 
release me. 

At the announcement of the Earl’s secretary, Master 
Walter was forced to make his exit. I was a prisoner 
no longer. I stood alone upon the stage. The oppress¬ 
ing influences had vanished. The icy spell was sud¬ 
denly broken. My paralyzing fears melted away. I 
delivered the soliloquy, commencing, — 

“ A wedded bride! Is it a dream ? is it a phantasm ? ” — 

with an impassioned abandon that called down a storm 
of surprised applause. It was the first I had received 
since I opened my lips. Davenport entered as Clifford. 
How the scene between Julia and the new secretary 
was enacted, the plaudits, that came in sudden gusts 


SUCCESS AT THE ELEVENTH HOUR. 


281 


from the time it commenced, and the vociferous attempt 
to call us before the curtain at the close of the fourth 
act, abundantly testified. I refused to answer the sum¬ 
mons, but hastened to my dressing room to assume 
Julia’s bridal attire. I was myself again — or rather, I 
was once more the character I represented. Had I 
found the pertinacious visitant in my apartment, I 
should have dismissed her as unhesitatingly as I threw 
aside the fictitious embellishment which she compelled 
me to wear. 

If, when I appeared on the stage in the fifth act, the 
audience remarked that Julia had grown mysteriously 
slender, they were at liberty to conclude that she had 
pined away, and become etherealized by her sorrows. 
How I passed through Julia’s stormy scene with Master 
Walter, the audience told me with unmistakable 
voices. I was no longer panic-stricken. Master Wal¬ 
ter might have led me to the wrong side of the stage, 
or taken prisoner my train — he could not now have 
disconcerted me. I had passed out of the narrow limit 
to which an actor’s malice could reach. Half an hour 
before, I had stood upon the very brink of failure. By 
a sudden transition of feeling within myself, a similar 
revulsion had been produced upon the audience, and 
their verdict was reversed. That verdict we re¬ 
ceived at the close of the fifth act, in front of the cur¬ 
tain. The “ call ” had never before imparted to me a 
sensation of such intense pleasure. I needed this 
marked assurance that I had removed the impression 
made by my apathetic acting through three weary acts 
of the play. 

Mr. Davenport escaped the annoyances to which I 
had been subjected. The part of Clifford is not one in 


282 


AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF AN ACTRESS. 


which he could exhibit the extent of his talents; but 
his fine person, manly bearing, and quietly earnest act¬ 
ing won ready favor. 

It was six months before I wholly recovered from the 
mental effects of that first night upon a London stage. 


CHAPTER XVI. 


London Editors. — The Daily Times and the Earl of Carlisle. 
Mr. Macready. — Personal Acquaintance and friendly Services. — 
First Engagement at Theatre Royal Olympic. — Lady of Lyons. — 
Reengagement in Conjunction with Mr. Brooke. — The Lords of 
Ellingham.—Accident on first Night's Representation.—Mary 
Howitt. — Her Artist Daughter'. — Camilla Crosland. — Poem. — 
Mr. Macready's Farewell at Theatre Royal, Marylebone. — Our 
Engagement. — Succession of Reengagements. — Permanent Stars. 
— “ Shadow on the Wall." — Armandproduced in London. — Note 
from W. J. Fox, M. P., on the Morning of Representation. — His 
Critique in the Examiner. — Publication of Play.—Effect of 
Play Books in the Theatre upon Actors. — A Prompter's Anec¬ 
dote .— Presentation of Silver Vase .— The Witch Wife. 

No ordeal could be severer than the one through 
which we passed on that first night in London. 
Amongst the audience, there were not a dozen persons 
whose hands had ever clasped ours in friendly greeting. 
Even the few to whom we were personally known had 
been strangers a week before. Amongst the members 
of the press and the habitues of the theatre, who play 
the critic with a faultfinding passion, — for 

“ A man must serve his time to every trade 
Save censure — critics all are ready made,” — 

we had not a single acquaintance. Consequently, we 
were not prepared for the flattering estimate of our 
abilities which appeared in the public journals on the 
morning after our debut. 

The Hunchback was repeated for our second appear- 

. ( 283 ) 


284 


AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF AN ACTRESS. 


ance. On this occasion the performance was not 
marred by the demoniacal possession of the spirit of 
“ stage fright.” 

Benedick and Beatrice were our next impersonations. 
I quote one of the notices which met our well-pleased 
eyes on the ensuing morning : — 

“ The great test of a true dramatic artiste is Shakspeare. Many 
an actor or actress who has acquired a fair portion of fame in the 
ordinary run of characters fails in the attempt to imbody the crea¬ 
tions of Shakspeare ; whereas, on the contrary, the artiste who can 
act Shakspeare can act any thing else with ease and success. Mrs. 
Mowatt was last night tried by the Shakspearian test, and was not 
found wanting. She is an artiste — there is no mistake about it. 
She has the ring of the genuine metal — she can act Shakspeare ! 
The play was Much Ado about Nothing, and Mrs. Mowatt sus¬ 
tained the part of Beatrice. She looked charmingly, and thor¬ 
oughly entered into the spirit of her part. Nothing could exceed 
the playful espiegleirie with which she bantered Benedick, and the 
thorough gusto with which she gave the repartees. Her ringing, 
tinkling laugh, too, was fascinating, exceedingly — it was the laugh 
of genuine enjoyment. In the more serious scenes, too, — although, 
perhaps, she exhibited here and there a tendency to overacting, 
which appears to be the great fault of the American school of 
tragedy, — she was very fine. ‘ One touch of feeling makes the 
whole world kin; ’ and who, that witnessed her indignant denuncia¬ 
tions of the wrongers of Hero, did not feel the truth of the line ? 
The forte of Mrs. Mowatt is evidently high comedy. Her Beatrice 
is a proof of it; her success was complete. She was well supported 
by Mr. Davenport, whose Benedick, albeit perhaps scarcely suffi¬ 
ciently rollicking in the earlier scenes, was a well-studied, gentle¬ 
manly line of acting.” 

But while all the London papers bestowed elaborate 
criticism, the oracular Daily Times, which leads the ed¬ 
itorial van, preserved an ominous silence. Its columns 
wholly ignored our too republican existence. 

I do not mean to convey the impression that the 
press, with this exception, were unanimous in their 
commendations. The Morning Post could barely tol- 


LONDON CRITICS. 


285 


erate the American debutants. Its praises were of a 
killing faintness — its censures bombastically loud. 

The Athenzeum, at the outset of our career, had an 
odd but caressing mode of chiding — wrapping all its 
bitters up in sugar plums. I was pronounced u pleas¬ 
ant, but wrong;” designated as “a rose without a * 
thorn,” “ a bee without a sting,” and charged with a 
“ honey-dew ” insipidity. I presume that in time the 
wished-for thorns sprouted from the rose stem, — the 
unobtruded sting gave some evidence of existence, — 
for, before I left London, the Athenseum became one 
of our warmest advocates. 

The Examiner, usually an austere critic, bestowed 
upon us high encomiums until the production of Fash¬ 
ion. Then, upon my offending head, it poured innu¬ 
merable vials of wrath. The American nation, it 
indignantly declared, “ had crowned their countrywo¬ 
man with honor for a production which would have 
subjected Mrs. Trollope to the penalty of tar and feath¬ 
ers”! 

Our engagement of six weeks came to a close. On 
the morning after my benefit — our last night — the 
portentous silence of the Daily Times was unexpectedly 
broken. It suddenly discovered that two American 
performers were actually fulfilling a successful engage¬ 
ment at the Princesses’ Theatre, and condescendingly 
honored them with a laudatory notice. Henceforth our 
performances were regularly chronicled in its columns. 
The mysterious waking up for a time remained as in¬ 
comprehensible to us as the long slumber. 

At a dinner party given by Mr. Macready, we be¬ 
came acquainted with Mr. Oxenford, the theatrical 
critic of this influential journal. A species of half 


28G 


AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF AN ACTRESS. 


friendship sprang out of the introduction, and lasted 
several years. Mr. Oxenford said to me one day, 
“ Would you like to know how the Daily Times chanced 
to notice you after giving you the go-by through your 
first engagement ? ” 

» I replied, that there were few subjects upon which 
my curiosity had been so much excited ; consequently, 
the information would be particularly interesting. 

“ You are indebted to a friend,” he answered. 

“ To what friend ? ” 

“ To the Earl of Carlisle.” 

Mr. Oxenford then told me that he had always lacked 
faith in America’s ability to produce theatrical genius 
of high order — making Miss Cushman an exception to 
this sweeping scepticism. When he heard of the new 
American artists in England, he thought it “ too great 
a bore ” to go and see them. A note from the Earl of 
Carlisle induced him to visit the theatre on my benefit 
night. The contents of this note he did not repeat, but 
I presume it requested for us an impartial criticism. 
Henry Clay’s letter to the Earl of Carlisle, with one of 
my own, were, I believe, enclosed in the earl’s missive 
to the editor of the Times. It was, then, to our own 
beloved and distinguished countryman — not wholly to 
a foreign nobleman — that we owed our indebtedness 
for this important service. 

Our engagement at the Princesses’ was to be fol¬ 
lowed by the appearance of Mr. Macready. A propo¬ 
sition was made to us by Mr. Henry Wallack, stage 
manager, that we should consent to a reengagement, 
and act in conjunction with Mr. Macready in the plays 
which he produced. This arrangement would have af¬ 
forded me invaluable opportunities of improvement ip 


MR. MACREADY. 


287 


my vocation. But my personations had been con¬ 
fined to the Juliets, Rosalinds, Desdemonas. Mr. 
Macready required the support of a Lady Macbeth, 
Queen Constance, Queen Katharine. These were im- 
bodiments which-1 had not the temerity to attempt — 
at least not until I had devoted to them the study of 
months, or rather years. I was obliged reluctantly 
to forego the proposed distinction. Mrs. Kemble filled 
the place for which I, confessedly, had not the indis¬ 
pensable qualifications. 

Our personal acquaintance with Mr. Macready was 
the source of mingled gratification and advantage. A 
dinner was given at his house for the express purpose 
of making us acquainted with persons of literary, 
editorial, and social influence. Nor was this the only 
means by which he generously endeavored to promote 
our professional interest. 

Our second engagement in London took place at the 
Olympic Theatre Royal. Mr. Davidson was the nomi¬ 
nal manager. The name of the actual lessee and man¬ 
ager, a gentleman of family and high literary standing, 
was withheld from the public. 

Mr. Brooke had just made his triumphant London 
debut at this theatre. During his temporary absence 
in the provinces we appeared in the Lady of Lyons, 
the manager of the Olympic not finding the author’s 
demand so exorbitant as it was deemed by the manager 
of the Princesses’. But the former was a dramatist 
himself. The play was repeated six successive nights. 
Shortly after Mr. Brooke’s return we reengaged, and 
appeared in the same plays, Mr. Davenport and Mr. 
Brooke sustaining characters of equal importance. 

This combination took place for the first representa- 


288 


AUTOBIOGRAPHY OP AN ACTRESS. 


tion of a tragedy in five acts, by Henry Spicer, Esq., 
author of Judge Jeffreys, Honesty, &c., entitled the 
Lords of Ellingham. The production of that play 
formed the principal feature of our engagement. Mr. 
Davenport’s portrayal of the confiding, noble-minded 
Dudley Latymer won him much applause. Mr. Brooke 
rendered the audacious villany of Laurency almost 
dangerously captivating. 

The death of Edith, in the last act, ends a highly- 
wrought scene, full of thrillingly effective situations. I 
forgot the wisdom of reserved strength on the first night, 
and made too lavish an expenditure. In attempting to 
reach my dressing room immediately after “ the death,” 
I fell from exhaustion, and, striking a sharp corner, cut a 
deep gash near the left temple. Fortunately, the flow 
of blood restored me to consciousness. The first sound 
I heard on recovering was the call boy’s summons of 
u Edith, you are called.” In the closing scene of the 
play Edith is brought in on her bier, to strike horror 
to the heart of her remorseless persecutor. The bier 
could not be carried empty upon the stage, for, at a 
certain point, it is necessary that a veil should be lifted, 
and Edith’s face disclosed. The manager, hearing of 
my accident, was very anxious to procure a substitute; 
but there was no time, and the discovery of a change 
by the audience would have endangered the effective¬ 
ness of the last act, and perhaps the success of the 
play. 

My head was hastily bound up, and I was laid upon 
the bier. The ghastliness of countenance produced by 
the accident was particularly appropriate to the (to me) 
solemn occasion. But when Dudley lifted the veil, and 
beheld the bandaged head and the crimson drops that 


LONDON FRIENDSHIPS. 


289 


still trickled amongst Edith’s hair, he uttered an invol¬ 
untary exclamation of horror not set down “ i’ the 
book.” The departed spirit of Edith must have re¬ 
turned at the sound, for she whispered reassuringly 
through half-opened lips, u It’s nothing — I’m not much 
hurt!” 

The accident did not prevent my responding to the 
call of the audience when the play ended, though with 
bandaged brows ; nor did it preclude my appearance in 
the same character on the ensuing night, in spite of an 
unbecoming wound, that could not be concealed by the 
most ingenious arrangement of curls. But this accident 
is a trifle to those which occur every day in the profes¬ 
sion. There are instances of men’s continuing a per¬ 
formance on the stage after they have had a finger or 
thumb accidentally shot off. The putting out of an eye, 
or the breaking of a limb, might possibly be considered 
disabling ; but minor calamities would be looked upon 
as too trivial to frustrate the enjoyment of a despotic 
audience. 

Our engagement at the Olympic continued until the 
close of the theatre for the summer vacation. 

The entourage of friendships will render any locality 
a home . The most genial of social surroundings soon 
made us cease to feel like strangers in London. Hil¬ 
lard, in his exquisite book on Italy, remarks, “ It is well 
to be chary of names. It is an ungrateful return for 
hospitable attentions to print the conversation of your 
host,” &c., &c. The temptation to disregard this admo¬ 
nition is great in proportion to the wisdom of the rule 
from which it emanates. I have endeavored, in spite 
of some natural inclinations to the contrary, to adhere 
to the precept, except when the names of parties men- 
19 


290 


AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF AN ACTRESS. 


tioned were in some way associated with my own his¬ 
tory. In this connection I may speak of Mary and 
William Howitt. Their names had been familiar words 
from childhood. What a moment of delight I thought 
it, when I could exchange my imperfect, imaginary por¬ 
traits of these celebrities for as charming realities ! We 
first met at a literary soiree. I knew that Mary Howitt 
was present. As my eyes glanced round the room in 
search of her, they rested upon a lady whose almost 
Quaker-like simplicity of garb, blandly serene counte¬ 
nance, and earnest manner in conversation, made me 
exclaim, internally, “ That must be Mary Howitt! ” A 
few minutes afterwards, when we were presented to 
each other, I found that I was not mistaken. 

Her personal acquaintance with members of the dra¬ 
matic profession had awakened an interest in the stage. 
But in what subject, affecting human welfare, does not 
Mary Howitt take a ready interest ? Out of what un¬ 
pretending ore would not the alchemy of her philan¬ 
thropic mind strike a vein of gold? Our accidental 
introduction ripened into an attachment — at least on 
my side. We were constantly thrown into communica¬ 
tion ; and Mary Howitt’s visits, generally extended to 
some hours, ushered in my “ white days.” She pro¬ 
posed to add mine to the collection of memoirs that had 
already flowed from her graphic pen, and desired us to 
furnish her with materials. In compliance with this re¬ 
quest, my early history was related, principally by Mr. 
Mowatt. The memoir, which she used to pronounce “ a 
labor of love,” was published in the People’s Journal. 
William and Mary Howitt were at that time the editors. 

Our intercourse with Mary Howitt was greatly en¬ 
hanced by the society of her gentle, artist daughter, 


THE HOWITTS. 


291 


Anna Mary Howitt. She had not then contributed to 
the literary world her entertaining book, entitled, The 
Art Student in Munich. It might truly be said of this 
lovely girl, — 

“ The dispositions she inherits 
Which render fair gifts fairer.” 

She at once resembled and differed from her mother in 
character. Her philanthropy was as large, but more 
discriminating. Her energies were more concentrated. 
Her perceptions of the beautiful and true (are they not 
identical ?) were even quicker. Her friendships were 
built upon rocks — those of her mother had now and 
then a hasty foundation in sand. Who, that has once 
known this youthful artist authoress, can forget the pe¬ 
culiar fascination of her dove-like ways—the frank 
simplicity which impressed one with a sense of reserved 
power to be used at need — the modest sensitiveness 
that shrank from display — the apparent unconsciousness 
of her own rich gifts? She always reminded me of 
Wordsworth’s description of that Lucy who “ dwelt 
alone beside the banks of Dove ” — although, in one re¬ 
spect, she differed — there were many to praise her, and 
many to love. 

Another friendship, highly prized and warmly re¬ 
sponded to, and leaned upon with a loving confidence in 
its lasting strength, was that of a friend of the Howitts, 
Camilla Crosland, — nee Camilla Toulmin, — celebrated 
as a novelist, poetess, editress. 

Mrs. Crosland addressed to me the following poem, 
one of the most valued of the effusions to which my 
name has been attached. My prospective return to 
America had formed the principal subject of our con¬ 
versation. 


292 


AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF AN ACTRESS. 


TO ANNA CORA MOWATT. 

Blow, western wind, athwart the wave, — 

Blow, western breezes, still, — 

And hold at bay the envious bark, 

That seeks its sail to fill, 

Whene’er the threatened day arrives 
(We dream of it with pain) 

That calls the bird of passage home, 

Across th’ Atlantic main. 

A bird — a pearl — a “ lily ” * flower ! 

We love to liken thee 

To something fresh from Nature’s hand 
In mystic purity. 

And Protean should be types, I ween, 

Of thee, O richly gifted ! 

By triple rights and triple crowns 
Above the herd uplifted. 

Thy perfect beauty not the theme 
On which to fondly warm; 

For common clay has ta’en, ere now, 

The Spartan Helen’s form. 

And yet that beauty had a spell 
• Which unto awe could reach, 

When first I clasped thy hand, and heard 
The music of thy speech. 

It stayed the words upon my tongue, 

My foot upon the floor; 

I could but gaze as I, methinks, 

Had never gazed before. 

We were not strangers — 0, no, no ! 

And cordial was thy clasp ; 

And yet, that awe well nigh forbade 
My hand return the grasp. 

I knew thee by a knowledge deep — 

That of thy printed page ; 

* In allusion to the pet name by which I had for some years been called 
by relatives and friends. The English press had also, on several occasions 
used the designation of the “ American lily.” 


POEM BY CAMILLA C1IOSLAND. 


293 


But not as yet had I beheld 
Thy triumphs of the stage. 

Thy Blanche was still a hearsay thing, 

Thy Pauline but a dream; 

And Shakspeare’s women dwelt apart, 

And not in life might seem. 

Far from conventional, cold rules, 

That tell of paint and glare, 

And all the playhouse tricks of trade, 

And player’s studied care, 

Thy poet soul can mould and bring 
The poet’s thought to life, 

As when Italian Juliet loves, 

And dies a hapless wife ; — 

Or chaste Virginia, tyrant-doomed, 

Amid her household gods, 

Most desolate, yet undismayed, 

By Roman lictor’s rods ! 

To goodness, greatness, love, and faith, 

Thy heart responsive bends ; 

Thy woman's nature is the spell 
That with thy genius blends, — 

The spell that binds our hearts to thee 
With chains more strong than steel, 

And girds thee round with British love, 

And friends both warm and leal, 

Who bid the western breeze to blow 
Athwart the Atlantic main, 

And envy thy broad land the right 
To lure thee back again. 

Five years have added their daily strength to the bond 
of affection that links Camilla Crosland with all my 
most cherished English associations. Her name has 
ever a harp-like sound in my ears, and brings back her 
own tones, — 

“ A voice of holy sweetness, turning common words to grace.” 

There are high arguments in her life to disprove the 


294 


AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF AN ACTRESS. 


supposed incompatibility of literary pursuits with home 
avocations — more emphatically womanly. These are 
manifested in the smiling patience with which she has 
encountered “ a sea of trials,” whose tide but ebbed 
to flow again; the simple dignity with which she re¬ 
ceives the homage due to her talents; the “gracious 
household ways” that render beautiful her domestic 
existence. But I may not linger upon this theme, 
though it is one fraught with so many holy and touching 
memories. 

At the Theatre Royal, Marylebone, Mr. Macready 
played his London farewell previous to his departure for 
America. The engagement was one of the most bril¬ 
liant on record. Mrs. Warner occupied the managerial 
chair at this theatre for several seasons. Her untiring 
exertions and Mr. Macready’s advent drew a high class 
of audiences to the Marylebone. The theatre is situ¬ 
ated at the “ West End” of London. Other stars of 
note succeeded Mr. Macready and Mrs. Warner, and the 
audience which they first attracted became permanent. 

An advantageous offer was made to us by the Mary¬ 
lebone management and accepted. We opened in As 
You Like It. Our engagement of twelve nights was fol¬ 
lowed by a reengagement of twelve more, and immedi¬ 
ately after by a third engagement. We became estab¬ 
lished favorites with the audience, and a proposition was 
made for us to become the permanent “ stars ” of the 
establishment for the next five months, appearing every 
night. 

I ought to mention that the most eminent London 
stars eschew the comet-like course adopted in the United 
States. If their attraction be considered sufficiently 
strong, they engage for the season. Mr. and Mrs. 


THE SHADOW UPON THE WALL. 


295 


Kean were at this period the fixed stars of the Hay- 
market Theatre. 

The one hundred and twenty odd nights which were 
now to be occupied in the same locality demanded a 
supply of new parts. In two or three instances, the 
choice of plays was left to the management. I — 
not possessing Mr. Davenport’s remarkable versatility, 
which enabled him to imbody with equal ease an 
Othello or a Yankee, a cardinal or a sailor — was, con¬ 
sequently, tho sufferer. 

On one occasion the manager selected a drama by 
Serle, entitled the Shadow upon the Wall. The char¬ 
acter of the heroine had been very successfully repre¬ 
sented by Mrs. Keeley; but it was as much out of my 
range as Lady Macbeth would be out of hers. I en¬ 
deavored in vain to idealize the cottage Cicely; I liked 
to deal with subtleties in my delineations, and the 
breadth of melodrama eluded my reach. At one cli¬ 
max of the play, Cicely, wandering through a deep glen, 
beholds the shadow of the murderer on a ruined wall. 
With a loud shriek she stands — that is to say, it is her 
duty to stand — transfixed in an attitude of horror. I 
was too nearsighted to distinguish the shadow, and 
could not be certain when it appeared, for I occupied 
the stage alone. A person was stationed behind the 
scenes, near one of the entrances, to apprise me in a 
whisper when the shadow “ came on; ” but not being 
wrought up to the requisite pitch of terror by the an¬ 
nouncement in a gentle whisper that it was time to be 
frightened, the only scream I could execute was a very 
dubious exclamation, that probably indicated nothing 
more distressing than a sudden pinch. The “attitude 
of horror ” was an equally tame and amiable expression 


296 


AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF AN ACTRESS. 


of alarm. The “shadow scene” consequently lost all 
its effect, though I am told that it was particularly 
startling when Mrs. Keeley enacted Cicely. 

I found, while studying the character, that it was not 
one in which I was likely to advance my dramatic repu¬ 
tation. It occurred to me to “ write in ” a few speeches 
which I could render telling by their delivery. As I 
hoped, they drew down the plaudits of the audience, 
who were ignorant of the interpolations. I was con¬ 
gratulating myself, at the conclusion of the play, upon 
the dexterous (as I thought) introductions, when, to my 
surprise and confusion, I was informed that the author 
was in the theatre, and desired to be presented to me. 
He had witnessed the performance; had heard the 
trashy lines that I had passed off as his; and probably, 
in his heart, meditated some condign punishment for my 
presumption. I would have done any thing reasonable 
or unreasonable to avoid the introduction; but there was 
no escape. When the offended dramatist was brought 
behind the scenes, his frigid bearing, and stern, rebuking 
countenance did not tend to reestablish my self-posses¬ 
sion. He looked as though he longed to say, “ Where 
did you get those fine claptrap speeches with which 
you have thought fit to interlard my play?” and I 
wanted to answer, in a penitential tone, “ Pardon what I 
have spoke ! ” &c. But we were neither of us standing 
in Madame de Genlis’s Palace of Truth, and we could 
only guess at each other’s thoughts. In that faculty my 
transatlantic origin gave me the advantage. I read such 
unqualified condemnations in his mind that I never after 
ventured to utter more than was “ set down ” by the 
author. 

In spite of my shortcomings as Cicely, the play 


PRODUCTION OP ARMAND IN LONDON. 297 


was rendered sufficiently attractive, by Mr. Davenport’s 
thrilling personation of Luke, to be repeated several 
times. The critics courteously ignored my failure; but 
that did not render the mortification less poignant to 
myself. 

When the season was at its height, Armand was 
placed in rehearsal. It had first been perused and can¬ 
vassed by four distinguished London critics. They 
were authors themselves, and three of them dramatic 
authors. The play was revised by one of their number; 
or rather, it was marked abundantly for my revision. 
A speech was pointed out which bears strong resem¬ 
blance to a passage in Byron’s Sardanapalus. The 
imitation was an unintentional one. I proposed ex¬ 
punging the lines entirely, but was overruled by the 
judgment of my critics. I next attempted to alter them; 
but the amendment was not approved. They finally 
decided that the passage should stand undefended as it 
was originally written. 

The play was put upon the stage after many labori¬ 
ous rehearsals. The scenery and stage appointments 
were all of the most costly character. The “ cast” was 
unexceptionable. All the actors lent their hearty coop¬ 
eration. The play could only fail through its own in¬ 
trinsic want of merit. 

I pass over the days of nervous unrest, of feverish 
anxiety, during its preparation. For an American, and 
a woman, to aim at double distinction, as actress and 
dramatist, before a London tribunal, was, to say the least , 
a bold experiment. 

On the morning of the representation, my flagging 
spirits were suddenly raised by a note from a gentleman 
distinguished as a divine, a man of letters, and member of 


298 


AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF AN ACTRESS. 


Parliament, Mr. W. J. Fox. It accompanied the man¬ 
uscript of Armand, which he had requested the privi 
lege of reading. The note contained these words: — 

Dear Mrs. Mowatt. 

Thanks for the sight of this. “’Tis not in mortals to 
command success,” but you have assuredly deserved it. 

Yours, sincerelv, 

W. J. FOX. 

Many a time that day was this precious little docu¬ 
ment reperused; and if I read it with glistening eyes 
and a swelling heart, was not the weakness a pardonable 
one? 

Armand was produced at the Theatre Royal, Mary- 
lebone, January 18, 1849. The theatre was crammed 
from pit to dome. The faces of well-known London 
literati were conspicuously scattered about the house. 
As soon as the curtain rose, this intelligence was brought 
to my dressing room. But for the note of Mr. Fox, I 
should probably have had another attack of “ stage 
fright,” and, by that fatal panic, insured the failure of 
the play. To be told from such a source that I had 
“ deserved success,” sustained and inspired me. 

At the close of the second act, the actors, who had 
assembled in a body around the wings to witness the 
representation, assured me that “ the play was safe; the 
audience were in such a capital humor, and so attentive ” 
To rivet the attention of an audience is always a gigan¬ 
tic step towards success ; for • 

“ The crow doth sing as sweetly as the lark 
When neither is attended.” 

With what a thrill of delight I watched the green 


CRITIQUE BY W. J. FOX. 


299 


curtain fall upon the fifth act! After I once began to 
feel my full responsibilities as an artist, the nightly de¬ 
scent of this welcome green curtain became one of the 
ecstatic moments of my existence. It always gave me 
the delicious sense 

“ Of trial past, of duty done ! ” 

and brought the calm of well-earned repose. 

At our summons before the curtain, when we were 
told in cheers that the double victory had been achieved, 
Mr. Davenport led me through a perfect parterre of 
scattered flowers and garlands. Amongst them I recog¬ 
nized a delicate wreath, of classic form, made of fresh 
ivy leaves. I knew that it had been woven by no 
hand save that of Mary Howitt’s artist daughter. It 
was her own favorite headdress in society. To many 
another floral band and bouquet were attached the names 
of ever-to-be-remembered London friends. 

Reviews of the play, with extracts, appeared the next 
morning in almost every journal in London. Their 
tenor may be inferred from the fact that twenty-two 
of these notices were reprinted upon the ample play 
bills during the run of the play. The Daily Times gave 
a long and complimentary notice, with extracts. The 
notice in the Examiner was written by W. J. Fox, 
M. P.; and this I quote, on account of the high source 
from which it emanated: — 

“ Marylebone Theatre. — On Thursday night, a new play, by 
Mrs. Mowatt, the American actress, was produced at this theatre, 
with complete and triumphant success. It is entitled Armand, or 
the Peer and the Peasant, and the contrast intimated in the second 
title is wrought out very effectively by scenes and characters dis¬ 
playing the best side of rural life, and the profligate manners of 
the court of Louis XV. These uncongenial elements are skilfully 


300 


AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF AN ACTRESS. 


blended by a plot which makes Blanche, the village May Queen, the 
unacknowledged daughter of Duke de Richelieu, and the peasant 
Armand her successful lover, notwithstanding the disparity of birth, 
and the difficulties interposed by the passion of the monarch 
himself. 

“ The incidents by which this is accomplished have less of novelty 
in themselves than in their combination; and they are adapted to 
the author’s purpose with great felicity. VVe have to overlook 
some few anachronisms, both social and moral; for the rapid ad¬ 
vancement of Armand to high rank in the army, and the tone of 
thought and sentiment ascribed both to him and Blanche, properly 
belong to a post revolutionary period in French history. Still, their 
juxtaposition with the corruptions of the monarchy is so happily 
rendered subservient to the poetical unity of the drama as to silence 
criticism. 

“ The result is a play of lively, intense, and continuous interest, 
which is more easily characterized than described. A profound phi¬ 
losophy of human nature, the terrific war of stormiest passion, and 
the magnificent bursts of poetry may not be there. Indeed, where 
are they, save in the few greatest masters of dramatic magic ? But 
we have, instead, living and suggestive outlines of character, scenes 
of pathos whose power is testified by the emotions of the audience, 
and a pervading simplicity, truth, and loveliness, both of thought 
and language, which act as a charm, and are full of fascination. 
This it is which leaves the most distinct and abiding impression. 
Over the whole, though dangerous themes have sometimes to be 
dealt with, there is an air of purity, refinement, and tenderness. 
The most religious parent might take his child to such a play. 
And yet the common craving for theatrical excitement runs no 
risk of being ungratified. 

“ Mrs. Mowatt is too little known to London playgoers for it to 
be generally understood how completely she would be identified 
with her own heroine. In the simplicity, sweetness, earnestness, 
the meek endurance, the moral energy, the devoted love, there 
seems no acting, but the direct and spontaneous expression of indi¬ 
vidual character. There is freshness, beauty, and reality, which the 
most elaborate art cannot rival. We hope that the charm of this 
personation, together with the rare fact of success, both as actress 
and authoress, may lead to better opportunities than have yet 
occurred for Mrs. Mowatt’s winning a just appreciation of her 
merits from metropolitan audiences. 

“ Mr. Davenport rendered able support to the piece as Armand, 
the artisan. He maintained a frank, manly bearing, without de¬ 
generating into insolence; and, to our perceptions, without that 


ARMAND. 


301 


transatlantic exaggeration which haunts the imagination of some 
of our critics, who might find the reality nearer home. All the 
actors and actresses engaged appeared to exert themselves as 
heartily as it proved successfully for the general effect. And Miss 
Villars deserves especial notice for her lively delineation of an 
affected page of the old regime. The play was well got up, and 
some of the scenery was highly creditable. The authoress, at the 
conclusion, was almost smothered with bouquets and wreaths, and 
the repetition of the play every evening was announced with 
acclamations.” 

Armand was enacted twenty-one nights. The title 
of the play in America had been Armand, or the 
Child of the People. This second title could not obtain 
a license in London, and was changed to the Peer and 
the Peasant. Various passages, which had been pro¬ 
nounced upon the stage in New York and Boston, were 
expunged by the English licenser, on account of their 
anti-monarchical tendency. They were necessarily omit¬ 
ted in London. Some of them were afterwards restored 
before a Dublin audience, and met with a most uproar¬ 
ious response. Armand was published in London im¬ 
mediately after its first representation. The cftpies 
nightly sold at the door of the theatre caused great an¬ 
noyance to the dramatic representatives of the play. It 
is a singular fact, that if the eye of an actor chance to 
rest upon an individual in the boxes who is deeply ab¬ 
sorbed in a book, and if the actor fancy that book is 
of the play then performing, he will almost invariably 
forget his part, though he may have enacted it correctly 
dozens of times. Sometimes the mere leaf-turning of 
books in the hands of the audience will throw a whole 
company into confusion, and the prompter’s voice may 
be heard vainly attempting to plead the cause of the 
author. 

As soon as I discovered this professional peculiarity. 


302 


AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF AN ACTRESS. 


I endeavored to stop the sale of Armand, but unsuccess 
fully, as the English copyright had been sold. 

An American prompter told me that one night a 
company to which he was attached were acting a 
comedy which had been hastily put upon the stage. 
The actors were tolerably perfect in their parts. But 
it chanced that an old gentleman sat in the stage box. 
with spectacles on nose, poring over a book, evidently 
intent upon following the play. The sight of this stu¬ 
dious individual disconcerted them so much that, in 
theatrical parlance, several “stuck dead” in the few 
first scenes. The prompter, after making vain efforts 
to unravel the entangled dialogue, thought of a strata¬ 
gem to rid the actors of the confusing presence. He 
knocked at the door of the stage box,, and, after many 
apologies, informed the venerable gentleman within 
that the prompt book had accidentally been lost, and it 
was feared the performance could not continue, unless, 
indeed, he kindly loaned the manager his book. 

TJie book was instantly yielded up. The treacherous 
memories of the company suddenly became faithful, and 
the play proceeded and ended without further inter¬ 
ruption. 

Armand was reproduced before the close of the sea¬ 
son, and I was offered a benefit, the proceeds of which 
were to be devoted to the purchase of a silver vase in 
commemoration of the London success of the American 
production. Every seat was engaged long before the 
appointed night. The largest amount that the theatre 
would hold when densely crowded being ascertained, 
the vase was purchased in advance. The presentation 
took place on the night of the benefit, and greatly added 
to the eclat of the occasion. 


PRESENTATION OF SILVER VASE. 


303 


It is a magnificent vase of silver, lined with gold, 
surmounted by a statuette of Shakspeare. The dedi¬ 
cation engraved upon one side of the vase states that it 
is presented “ to Anna Cora Mowatt, for her services 
to the drama as authoress and actress, and as a record 
that worth and genius from every land will ever be 
honored in England.” 

The opposite side is inscribed with the following lines 
from Measure for Measure: — 

“ In her youth 

There is a prone and speechless dialect 

Such as moves men; besides, she has prosperous art 

When she would play with reason and discourse ; 

And well she can persuade.” 

The season at the Marylebone closed this year with 
the production of the Witch Wife, a drama in five 
acts, by Henry Spicer, Esq. It was successfully repre¬ 
sented. Mr. Davenport and myself enacted the lead¬ 
ing characters. The published play is prefaced by a 
complimentary dedication to the personator of the 
heroine. 


CHAPTER XVII. 


Travelling. — Stratford upon Avon. — An Avon Boatman's Ideas of 
Shakspeare. — Housekeeper of Warwick Castle, and Mrs. Siddons. 
— Isle of Wight. — Cottage at Richmond. — Vigorous Health. — 
Reopening of the Marylebone. — A Fairy-like Dressing Room. — 
Velasco. — Virginia. — Romeo and Juliet. — Close of the Season. — 
Entertainment upon the Stage. — A Ballet Girl nearly burned to 
Death. — Mrs. Renshaw’s Presence of Mind and Heroism. — Gen¬ 
eral Opinion of Ballet Girls.—A few Truths concerning the Pro¬ 
fession.—History of Georgina , the Ballet Girl. 

A portion of the summer theatrical vacation was 
passed in travelling. Our first visit was to the birth¬ 
place of the great prince of dramatists, whose tran¬ 
scendent genius of itself consecrates the stage. Dur¬ 
ing one of our drives through Stratford our carriage 
chanced to be filled with water lilies, just gathered at 
Victoria Spa. By a sudden impulse they were woven 
by me into a wreath, and flung at Shakspeare’s door. 
The old woman who has charge of the house spied the 
snowy token, and carried it to the room which is exhib¬ 
ited as the one in which Shakspeare was born. 

At Ann Hathaway’s cottage we drank from that well 
of most pellucid water beside which she and her in¬ 
spired poet-lover may often have stood. 

The sunny portion of one day was spent in rowing 
on the Avon. The stream bore no white water lilies 
on its bosom, but was profusely gemmed with a flower 
of cerulean blue, resembling the hyacinth. A few of 

( 304 ) 


STRATFORD UPON AVON. 


305 


these were gathered as mementoes. We were amused 
with our boatman’s garrulity. His ideas of Shakspeare 
were irreverent to a degree that turned indignation into 
mirth. He said he believed that some man of the 
name of Shakspeare did live in that butcher’s shop ; 
but, as far as he could find out, the man didn’t differ 
particularly from other folks. As for the trash that 
was shown strangers as having belonged to Mr. Shak¬ 
speare, it had all been bought up at sales of old furni¬ 
ture — he knew that for a fact. When he discovered 
that we were Americans, he asked many questions con¬ 
cerning the far-off El Dorado, and ended with, “Well, 
I should like to go to America once; and my wife says 
she has no objection to go, if she can come home at 
night to sleep.” 

At Charlecote we passed several hours; several 
more amongst the grass-grown ruins of Kenilworth Cas¬ 
tle; and the rest of the day at Guy’s Cliff and Warwick 
Castle. A beautiful portrait of Mrs. Siddons was 
pointed out to us at the latter place by the housekeep¬ 
er, who assured us that Mrs. Siddons had resided in 
that very castle in the capacity of lady’s maid. An 
expression of incredulity from one of our party quite 
incensed the narrator. Her fertile imagination fur¬ 
nished us a marvellous sketch of the early life of the 
Queen of Tragedy. The biographer who complained 
that her history lacked incident might have found an 
embarras de richesses with such a treasury. The genu¬ 
ineness of the materials, and that of the Shakspearian 
curiosities, would probably have weighed alike in the 
balance of truth. 

At the Isle of Wight — the Eden of England — we 
passed several weeks of enchantment The circuit of 
20 


806 


AUTOBIOGRAPHY OP AN ACTRESS. 


the island was made in daily jaunts. During these 
excursions, our memories were richly stored with pic¬ 
tures of varied loveliness. Through gradual transitions, 
the scenic beauty of the island glides from the wildly 
sublime to the softly beautiful. 

The rest of the summer flew merrily by at a pretty 
furnished cottage, hired for the season, in Richmond. 
How charming I thought that little cottage, with its 
porch and windows draped with jasmine vines ! Now 
and then the wind would loosen festoons of the starry 
flowers and blow them into the window, as if inviting 
us to pluck them. Their fragrance circled the cottage 
with a perfumed zone. 

Every moonlight evening we rowed upon the Thames, 
passing Pope’s Villa and other memorable localities. 
And every sunshiny day found us wandering through 
the exquisite Kew Gardens, or the magnificent grounds 
of Hampton Court, or beside the romantic “Vir¬ 
ginia Water,” or wherever Nature and Art clasped 
hands in picturesque union within our reach. 

During this summer, for the first time in my life, I 
comprehended the delightful interpretation of the words 
“ perfect health.” What the poet meant to convey by 
the “ fresh, joyous sense of being,” was a new revela¬ 
tion to me. The English climate seemed to have en¬ 
dowed me with an elasticity and strength which defied 
fatigue. The distance I could walk became problemat¬ 
ical. I could undergo any amount of hill climbing, or 
wagon jolting, or horseback galloping. The “ fragile 
form,” so often a subject of pitying regret to my Eng¬ 
lish friends, — and which the mistress of the wardrobe, 
on the evening of my London debut , had aptly likened 
to a “ bean stalk,” — now rounded into robustness. My 


PERFECT HEALTH. 


307 


mind and spirits sympathetically partook of the vigor 
that animated my frame. This summer seemed to me 
like a Sabbath rest after the labor, exhaustion, trials of 
the six working days appointed for toil. Strange that 
no prophetic voice within whispered that such halcyon 
calm might precede life’s heaviest storms! No warn¬ 
ing angel cried, — 

“ 0 joyful heart, exult not so! 

Mistrust that prospect fair; 

It is the lure of death and woe, 

The ambush of despair; ” * — 

or if he did, the voice could not reach my clay-clouded 
senses. 

Our engagement at the Marylebone Theatre had 
been renewed for another year. After that we pro¬ 
posed to return to America. Our new contract stipu¬ 
lated that I should only appear four nights in the week. 

The Olympic Theatre had been destroyed by fire, and 
was rebuilding. The lessee and manager of the Mary¬ 
lebone had also become its lessee. The new edifice 
was to be completed by Christmas. We were to ap¬ 
pear at the Marylebone from September until Decem¬ 
ber — then open the new Olympic, and remain there 
until the close of the season. 

While Mr. Mowatt w&s discussing with the manager 
the terms of the engagement, I expressed my surprise 
at the total disregard of all managers for the private 
comfort of the unfortunate beings yclept “stars.” I 
lancy I made some rather satirical comments upon the 
style of dressing rooms in which I had spent the larger 
portion of so many evenings for the last fey years. I 


From Epes Sargent’s “ Songs of the Sea, and other Poems. 1 


308 


AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF AN ACTRESS. 


amused myself with giving a burlesque description of 
some of the under-ground cells and attic corners which 
I had been forced to occupy, while being arrayed in 
the purple and gold of royalty — butterfly splendors 
compressed into the narrowest of chrysalis shells. 

The manager, supposing that I rebelled at these dis¬ 
comforts as much as I ironically pretended, made an¬ 
swer, “If you conclude to remain next season, the 
theatre shall boast of a 4 star dressing room ’ such as 
never before was seen.” 

I answered, laughingly, “ I suppose you will send 
some profile stage properties to my room, and ask me to 
be as good natured as the audience, and believe them to 
be what they seem — accepting them at theatrical 
valuation! ” 

We removed to London for the opening of the thea¬ 
tre early in September. I was not to act on the first 
night, but had consented to appear upon the stage dur¬ 
ing the singing of “ God save the Queen.” This anthem 
is always sung by the whole company at the opening of 
every English theatre. 

The chamber appropriated to the use of the star was 
§ a small apartment partitioned off* from the greenroom. 
The greenroom is the theatrical drawing room, where 
the company assemble during the play, and where their 
“ call ” for the stage is made. It is very seldom fre¬ 
quented by “ stars.” They generally retire from the 
stage to their own rooms. 

The apartment to which I was conducted on reach¬ 
ing the theatre had undergone a transformation worthy 
of Aladdin’s lamp. The carpet was of roses on a bed 
of moss — the paper on the walls represented panels 
formed of the loveliest bouquets — a wreath of flow- 


A FATRY-LlIvE DRESSING ROOM. 


309 


ers to match surrounded the ceiling — the gaslights 
streamed through ornaments shaped like lilies — a 
most lifelike group of water lilies, executed by Valen¬ 
tine Bartholomew, flower painter to her majesty, hung 
upon the wall —r and four mirrors reflected the furni¬ 
ture of pale-blue satin and gold. 

I stood a while gazing in dazzled astonishment. I 
had wished for comfort, not splendor, and was ungrate¬ 
ful enough to doubt that they had been, in this instance, 
united. The suspicion proved correct. The boudoir 
dressing chamber became a sort of show room, which 
crowds of visitors nightly begged the privilege of inspect¬ 
ing. The furniture was too costly for any but the most 
careful use. My meek maid (the same I mentioned in 
a previous chapter) used to say, with a sigh, “ I don’t like 
fairyland where there’s real work going on. I don’t dare 
to move any more than if I were in a glass house. Every 
thing looks as brittle as if it would break by looking at it! ” 

King Midas found it inconvenient to eat gold instead 
of bread. I was punished in a somewhat similar fashion ; 
discovering the comfortlessness of inappropriate magnifi¬ 
cence. 

The theatre opened with Epes Sargent’s tragedy of 
Velasco. Fanny Vining personated Isidora, (of which 
Ellen Tree was the original in America,) and Mr. Da¬ 
venport enacted Velasco. Both characters were finely 
delineated. The play found favor with the public, and 
was several times repeated. 

A number of new plays were produced, with various 
degrees of success, during this season. But the palm 
was won by the classic tragedy of Virginia, translated 
from the French of Mr. Latour de St. Ybars, by John 
Oxenford, Esq. M. Latour dramatized the Roman 


310 


AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF AN ACTRESS. 


story of Virginia for Mademoiselle Rachel. The chief 
interest is made to turn upon the female character, and 
all opportunities afforded by the historical narrative for 
portraying the tender and heroic passions are carefully 
improved. Mr. Davenport enacted Virginius, and I 
Virginia. 

Shakspeare’s Cymbeline and Twelfth Night were 
revived, and ran for some nights. But the most emi¬ 
nently successful of all our Shakspearian revivals was 
Romeo and Juliet, produced in a style of magnificence, 
as regards scenery and stage appointments, that can 
soldom have been equalled in any theatre. Miss Fanny 
Vining gave a fervid impersonation of the impassioned 
Romeo; nor did her sex destroy the illusion, as might 
have been supposed. I never knew the tragedy so 
popular with the public, and never had a Romeo whom 
I liked so well. Mr. Davenport played Mercutio, and 
I Juliet. The play was repeated a number of nights in 
succession. 

The season closed early in December, with Mr. 
Davenport’s benefit — the house overflowing on the oc¬ 
casion. A portion of the company were engaged for the 
new Olympic. That theatre was to open at Christmas, 
under the same management as the Marylebone. 

The manager, at the termination of this prosperous 
season, desired to express his acknowledgments to the 
ladies and gentlemen of the company and artisans en¬ 
gaged in the theatre. They accordingly received an 
invitation to assemble upon the stage on the evening 
after the theatre closed. A few of the literati and 
members of the press were also requested to attend. 
The theatre was decorated with garlands and banners, 
the stage thrown open to its full extent, and “ set out ” 


THEATRICAL ENTERTAINMENT 


311 


as a ball room. At the upper end were three tables. 
One, running parallel with the footlights, was furnished 
with raised seats — these were designed for the mana¬ 
ger, lessee, “ stars,” the press, and invited guests; two 
other tables ran horizontally at either end of the centre 
banqueting board. The members of the company sat at 
one of these tables; the corps de ballet, artisans, &c., 
occupied the other. No one who had been regularly 
employed in the theatre was omitted in the general in¬ 
vitation ; not even the somnolent little call boy, who 
might have preferred the rare luxury of going to bed 
betimes. Call boys are always sleepy. 

Although the position of the subordinates of the thea¬ 
tre must on that night have been a novel one, to their 
honor be it'spoken, the most fastidious observer could 
not have picked a flaw in their conduct. Their deco¬ 
rum was unimpeachable. No loud mirth was heard 
throughout the evening. Subdued enjoyment reigned 
in its place, with as strict observance of nice proprieties 
as would have been deemed necessary in an aristocratic 
ball room. 

The assembled company were addressed by the man¬ 
ager, who expressed to them his indebtedness for their 
exertions, and his regret at parting with some of their 
number. Various speeches were made by other parties 
present, and a number of favorite ballads sung by the 
musicians of the theatre and one or two guests. Albert 
Smith (of Mont Blanc memory ) contributed largely to 
the entertainment by his comic relations. A few qua¬ 
drilles and waltzes had been gone through before supper. 
There was but one cotillon and a country dance after 
the collation. It had been arranged that the entertain¬ 
ment should break up at an early hour. 


312 


AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF AN ACTRESS. 


The ceremony of leavetaking had just commenced, 
when a shriek, wild and ear-piercing, broke upon the star¬ 
tled crowd. A flying figure, enveloped in flames, was 
seen rushing up the stage. One of the young ballet girls 
had carelessly stood too near the footlights; her ball 
dress, of inflammable materials, had taken fire. Scream¬ 
ing frantically, she darted from side to side, fanning by 
her flight the devouring element, from which, in mad 
bewilderment, she thought to escape. She looked like a 
cloud of fire as she flew. Her white arms, tossed wildly 
above her head, were all of human form that was visible 
through the flames. Her cries were echoed from many 
lips. Those who could fled from the dangerous con-, 
tact. Vain efforts were made by the gentlemen to seize 
her. But for the bravery of Mrs. Renshaw, the mistress 
of the wardrobe, the poor girl’s life must in a few mo¬ 
ments have been sacrificed. This courageous woman 
caught the burning girl in her arms, threw her to the 
ground, and fell upon her, smothering the flames, while 
she fearlessly burned her own face and hands. Others 
followed her example, and the fire was quickly ex¬ 
tinguished. 

I cannot attempt adequately to describe the scene 
that ensued upon the very spot where a few moments 
previous all had been serene and harmonious gayety. 
Some of the ladies fainted — some fell into violent hys¬ 
terics — some ran screaming into the street. The gen¬ 
tlemen rushed about to obtain assistance for them. 
Above the mingled sounds of horror and confusion rose 
the shrill cries of the half-burned girl and the lamen¬ 
tations of her mother, who had been quickly apprised 
of the daughter’s peril. 

The person of the young girl was dreadfully burned. 


BALLET GIRLS. 


313 


her arras almost to the bone. Strange to say, her face 
remained untouched. For a time, her recovery was 
very doubtful. I saw her almost daily through her long 
illness, and her patience would have done credit to a 
stronger mind and higher station in life. The public 
testified their sympathy in a very substantial manner. 
Ample subscriptions were raised for her; the best medi¬ 
cal attendance supplied; and not a few aristocratic 
carriages stopped at her humble residence, in one of 
the narrowest, closest streets in London, while she 
received charitable visits from the wealthy and fashion¬ 
able owners. 

I know nothing of the history of Miss R-except 

what occured during her illness. Ballet girls, in gen- 
ral, are a despised, persecuted, and often misjudged race. 
The rank they hold in a theatre is only a degree raised 
above that of the male supernumeraries. They are 
looked down upon by the acting members of the company 
as though they belonged to a different order of beings. 
In some London theatres they have a separate green¬ 
room from that devoted to the actors and actresses. 
They are not even allowed to enter the latter apart¬ 
ment ; and yet, during my eight years’ experience upon 
the stage, I have known amongst this despised class 
many and many an instance of girls endowed with the 
highest virtues, leading lives of unimpeachable purity, 
industry, devotion to their kin, and fulfilling the hardest 
duties of life with a species of stoical heroism. 

The woman who, on the stage, is in danger of losing 
the highest attribute of her womanhood, — her priceless, 
native dower of chastity, — would be in peril of that loss 
in any situation of life where she was in some degree of 
freedom, particularly one in which she was compelled 


314 AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF AN ACTRESS. 

by circumstances to earn her own livelihood. I make 
this assertion fearlessly, for I believe it firmly. There 
is nothing in the profession necessarily demoralizing or 
degrading, not even to the poor ballet girl. 

In support of this position, I give a brief sketch of a 
young girl, belonging to a ballet company, whose conduct 
I had the opportunity of watching for several years. I 
do not deem it necessary to mention the circumstances 
that first attracted my attention and caused me to take 
interest in her fate. 

She had been educated as a dancer from infancy. 
She had been on the stage all her life; had literally 
grown up behind the scenes of a theatre. Her parents 
were respectable, though it is difficult to define their 
position in the social scale. At the time I knew her, 
her mother was paralytic and bedridden. The father 
was enfeebled by age, and could only earn a pittance by 
copying law papers. Georgina, the ballet girl, their 
only child, by her energetic exertions, supplied the 
whole wants of the family. And what were those exer¬ 
tions ? The mind of the most imaginative reader could 
hardly picture what I know to be a reality. Georgina’s 
parents kept no servant; she discharged the entire 
duties of the household — cooking, washing, sewing, 
every thing. From daylight to midnight not a moment 
of her time was unemployed. She must be at rehearsal 
every morning at ten o’clock, and she had two miles and 
a half to walk to the theatre. Before that hour she 
had the morning meal of her parents to prepare, her 
marketing to accomplish, her household arrangements 
for the day to make ; if early in the week, her washing; 
if in the middle of the week, her ironing; if at the close, 
her sewing; for she made all her own and her mother’s 


GEORGINA, THE BALLET GIRL. 315 

dresses. At what hour in the morning must she have 
risen ? 

Her ten-o’clock rehearsal lasted from two to four 
hours — more frequently the latter. But watch her in 
the theatre, and you never found her hands idle. When 
she was not on the stage, you were sure of discovering 
her in some quiet corner — knitting lace, cutting grate 
aprons out of tissue paper, making artificial flowers, or 
embroidering articles of fancy work, by the sale of 
which she added to her narrow means. From rehearsal 
she hastened home to prepare the midday meal of her 
parents and attend to her mother’s wants. After din¬ 
ner she received a class of children, to whom she taught 
dancing for a trifling sum. If she had half an hour to 
spare, she assisted her father in copying law papers. 
Then tea must be prepared, and her mother arranged 
comfortably for the night. Her long walk to the thea¬ 
tre must be accomplished at least half an hour before 
the curtain rose — barely time to make her toilet. If 
she was belated by her home avocations, she was com¬ 
pelled to run the whole distance. I have known this to 
occur. Not to be ready for the stage would have sub¬ 
jected her to a forfeit. Between the acts, or when she 
was not on the stage, there she sat again, in her snug 
corner of the greenroom, dressed as a fairy, or a maid 
of honor, or a peasant, or a page, with a bit of work in 
her hands, only laying down the needle, which her 
fingers actually made fly, when she was summoned by 
the call boy, or required to change her costume by the 
necessities of the play. Sometimes she was at liberty 
at ten o’clock, but oftener not until half past eleven, and 
then there was the long walk home before her. Her 
mother generally awoke at the hour when Georgina was 


316 


AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF AN ACTRESS. 


expected, and a fresh round of filial duties were to be 
performed. Had not the wearied limbs which that 
poor ballet girl laid upon her couch earned their sweet 
repose ? Are there many whose refreshment is so de¬ 
served — whose rising up and lying down are rounded 
by a circle so holy? 

No one ever heard her murmur. Her fragile form 
spoke of strength overtasked; it was more careworn 
than her face. That had always a look of busy serenity 
off the stage, a softly-animated expression when occu¬ 
pied before the audience in the duties of her profession. 
She had a ready smile when addressed — a meek reply 
when rudely chided by the churlish ballet master or 
despotic stage manager. Many a time I have seen the 
tears dropping upon her work ; but if they were noticed 
she would brush them away, and say she was a fool and 
cried for nothing. Her devotion to her parents was the 
strongest impulse of her nature. In her early youth she 
had been engaged to a young man, a musician, belonging 
to the orchestra. They had been betrothed for several 
years. Some fairer face, though he could scarcely have 
found a sweeter , had rendered him faithless. She bore 
her deep sorrow with that lovely submission which ele¬ 
vates and purifies the spirit, but gave her heart away 
no more. The breath of slander had never shadowed 
her name. Younger and gayer girls in the theatre used 
to designate her as the “old maid,” but this was the 
hardest word that any one ever applied to Georgina. 
Was not such a heart as hers what Elizabeth Barrett 
Browning has described as 

u A fair, still house, well kept, 

Which humble thoughts had swept. 

And holy prayers made clean ” ? 


GEORGINA, THE BALLET GIRL. 


317 


Her answer to a sympathizing u How weary you must 
be at night! ” was, “ Yes ; but I am so thankful that 1 
have health to get through so much. What would be¬ 
come of my poor mother or of my father, if I fell ill ?” 

How many are there who can render up such an ac¬ 
count of their stewardship as this poor girl may give in 
the hereafter? How many can say with her that life 
has been 

“ One perpetual growth 
Of heavenward enterprise ” ? 

And this flower blossomed within the walls of a 
theatre — was the indigenous growth of that theatre — 
a wallflower, if you like — but still sending up the rich 
fragrance of gratitude to Him by whose hand it was 
fashioned. To the eyes of the Pharisee, who denounces 
all dramatic representations, while with self-applauding 
righteousness he boldly approaches the throne of mercy, 
this u ballet girl,” like the poor publican, stood “ afar 
off.” To the eyes of the great Judge, which stood 
the nearer? 


CHAPTER XVIII. 


Illness of Mr. Moioatt. — Voyage to Trinidad. — New Olympic The¬ 
atre .— Powerful Company. — Abolishing the “ Star System.” — 
Opening Night of the Olympic Theatre. — A Black-garbed Audience. 
— Refusal to appear in Mourning. — A White Compromise. — 
Inaugural Address written by Albert Smith .— Two Gentleman of 
Verona. — Queen Adelaide’s Wardrobe. — Much Ado about Noth¬ 
ing. — Twelfth Night. — Othello. — The Noble Heart. — First 
Production of Fashion in London. — Critics. — Punch’s Rebuke to 
the Morning Post. — The Farce of Floral Showers. — Critique 
from the Sun. — Literary Gazette. — The Sentiments of Adam 
Trueman hissed. — The American and English Personators of 
Prudence —Mental Discipline of Actors—Illustrative Sketches. — 
Mrs. Parker. — Mrs. Knight. — Three Histories. 


During this autumn Mr. Mowatt again fell serious¬ 
ly ill. One eye became totally blind — its vision was 
nevermore restored. He was threatened at times 
with entire loss of sight. Medical aid proved unavail¬ 
ing. A voyage to the West Indies was recommended 
as the sole remaining panacea. Always hopeful, he 
seized upon an idea so full of promise, and persuaded 
himself that a speedy and thorough cure would be 
effected through change of climate. My desire to ac¬ 
company him was overruled. Nor was the execution 
of this wish feasible. The prostrating species of mal 
de mer to which I was subject, during the entire period 
of every sea voyage, would have rendered me a bur¬ 
den, and not a helpful companion. But even more im 
perative reasons compelled me to remain in London. 
It was only through the fulfilment of my engagement? 

( 318 ) 


VOYAGE TO TRINIDAD. 


319 


that the necessary outlay, added to other heavy respon¬ 
sibilities, could be met. I was enjoying vigorous health 
— I was surrounded by warm and tried friends — I 

was not left alone. But he- Enough that he 

thought he had chosen the lesser evil; it was not in 
his nature to murmur at the inevitable. 

He set sail for Trinidad in October, purposing to 
return in December, before the opening of the new 
Olympic. But Christmas came, and with it only a 
letter in the invalid’s wished-for place. The sunny 
climate had benefited him, yet he was too feeble to un¬ 
dertake the homeward voyage. Every steamer brought 
cheerful and encouraging letters — but the day of his 
return was postponed from week to week. He had 
been apprised in Trinidad, that to leave a tropical lati¬ 
tude for the cold and uncertain climate of England, 
during the winter season, was to rush into certain dan¬ 
ger. I was forced to lay aside my expectations as 
quietly as I best might, and to give up looking for him 
until spring. 

The new Olympic Theatre was to open on the 26th 
of December. In English theatres there are no per¬ 
formances during Christmas week, nor, as with us, on 
Christmas eve or Christmas night. 

No theatre in London could boast of a more power¬ 
ful and extensive company than the Olympic. All the 
talent within reach had been monopolized by the man¬ 
ager at a rate of remuneration which the most prosper¬ 
ous theatre could ill support. Among this host of con¬ 
stellations were found the names of Davenport, Brooke, 
Conway, Wigan, Belton, Compton, — all actors, who, 
since that day, have shone separately as stars, — be¬ 
sides a bright cluster of lesser luminaries. The femi- 



320 


AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF AN ACTRESS. 


nine portion of the company consisted of Miss Fanny 
Vining, Mrs. Seymour, the Misses Marshall, Mrs. 
Marston, Mrs. Parker, Mrs. Wigan, Mrs. Horn, Miss 
Oliver, Miss Ellis, &c. — ladies of unquestionable tal¬ 
ent in their several departments — a gifted and har¬ 
monious band. The stage management was under the 
direction of Mr. George Ellis, stage manager of her 
majesty’s private theatre at Windsor Palace — one of 
the most accomplished directors of which the profes¬ 
sion can boast. 

I proposed that the “ star system ” should be abol¬ 
ished, that no names should appear at the head of 
the playbills as claiming the highest rank, but that all 
should stand upon their individual merits — leaving the 
public to award to every one his just position. The 
proposition was acceded to with one voice. The same 
plan had been adopted in other London theatres. 

Every actor is, of course, engaged for a separate 
“ line of business.” The “ first old man ” does not 
trench on the rights of the “low comedian,” nor the 
“ light comedian ” interfere with the “ heavy man,” (or 
villain of the theatre,) nor the “ leading juvenile ” 
jostle against the “ walking gentleman,” nor the “ first 
old woman ” come in the way of the “ second old wo¬ 
man,” nor the “ leading lady ” of the “ walking lady,” 
nor the “ heavy lady ” of the “ singing chambermaid ” 
and “ page,” &c. The members of a company, in a 
well-organized theatre, resemble the men on a chess 
board. Each has his appointed place, and fights his 
battle for distinction in a fixed direction. I write this 
much for the uninitiated. 

The Olympic Theatre was to open with Shakspeare’s 
play of the Two Gentlemen of Verona, to be followed 


MOURNING. 


321 


by the usual fantastic Christmas pantomime. I was 
selected to deliver the inaugural address, written by 
Albert Smith, Esq. That was to end my duties for 
the night. Miss Yining and Mr. Davenport sustained 
the principal characters of the play. 

The recent death of Queen Adelaide rendered it 
incumbent that all the company should appear upon 
the stage, during the singing of the national anthem, 
attired in mourning, or wearing mourning badges. I 
refused to comply with this request. While I respect 
the convictions of others, my own objections to the 
use of mourning, or rather, to wearing black as 
mourning, deserve, I hope, some better name than pre¬ 
judice. At least, they are founded upon the religious 
belief which I profess, and are shared by the leading 
members of that faith in this country, though not in 
England. The force of English conventionality was 
too strong for me to obtain consent from the manage¬ 
ment to the violation of an established form. While 
the subject was under discussion, and both parties 
evinced a determination not to yield, a third person 
chanced to inquire whether I objected to wear white. 
I, of course, replied in the negative. u Then wear a 
dress of white crape, with trimmings of white crape, and 
without ornaments — that is considered mourning as 
much as the black to which you are opposed,” was 
the satisfactory rejoinder. I gladly acceded to this 
proposition. 

When the curtain rose upon the assembled company, 
prepared to sing “ God save the Queen,” I cannot con¬ 
ceive a more gloomily incongruous sight than was 
presented. In that gayly-decorated theatre, blazing 
with light, sat tier after tier of men, women, and chil- 
21 


322 


AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF AN ACTRESS. 


dren, all habited in black. The merry faces and fu¬ 
nereal garbs were strikingly inharmonious. On the 
stage stood the performers, arrayed in the same sable 
hue — those who were costumed for the play wore 
black badges, strangely at variance with their fantastic 
stage attire. My dress of white crape offered no dis¬ 
respect to the memory of Queen Adelaide, and relieved, 
by contrast, the sombre aspect of the group in whose 
centre I stood. 

At the close of the anthem, the inaugural address was 
delivered. I exerted myself to give it a thoroughly 
humorous interpretation. As may be inferred from the 
name of the author, the address was not of a solemn 
character. The black-garbed audience indulged in the 
most vociferous merriment at Mr. Albert Smith’s jokes. 
They were infinitely amused at his discovery that there 
was something extremely ludicrous in the burning of 
the old Olympic upon the site where the present edifice 
stood — the “ real water flooding the Olympic stage ” — 
the “ unexpected overflow ” in the theatre from the en¬ 
gine hose — the lessee’s hopes “ ending in smoke ” — 
and the 

“French ships’ masts by English fire destroyed ”* — 

a spectacle which at one period, he asserted, would have 
been particularly enjoyed. 

The performance of the play afforded a quiet and 
rational gratification. But the uproarious mirth, of 
course, broke out anew at the whimsicalities of Mat¬ 
thews during the pantomime. The laughter produced 
by his singing of “hot codlins” showered with tears 
the cheeks of age and childhood. True, they were 

* The old Olympic Theatre was built of the masts of French ships 


QUEEN ADELAIDE’S WARDROBE. 


323 


wiped away with handkerchiefs that had a funereal 
edge of black ; but the merry mourners wore “ the trap¬ 
pings and the outward garb of woe” with a jovial res¬ 
ignation quite consolatory to witness. 

Shortly after this, the wardrobe of Queen Adelaide 
was sold. I purchased several of the richest of her 
regal robes. The garments of the actual queen have 
since decked the mimic representative of royalty upon 
the English as well as American boards. 

My first appearance, except for the delivery of the 
address, was in Beatrice, a few nights after the open¬ 
ing. Mr. Davenport enacted Benedick. 

Shakspeare’s Twelfth Night was the next produc¬ 
tion. The characters in this play are very numerous, 
and the strength of the company was brilliantly ex¬ 
hibited. 

Mr. Brooke’s first appearance was in Othello ; Mr. 
Davenport represented Iago, Miss Vining Emilia, and 
I Desdemona. 

The first new play produced was the Noble Heart, by 
Mr. Lewees, in which Mr. Davenport, Mr. Brooke, and 
I sustained the leading characters. 

Fashion was the second novelty offered the public. 
I declined appearing. Miss Vining enacted Gertrude, 
and rendered the part more effectively than its author 
had ever done. Mr. Davenport personated the old 
farmer, Adam Trueman. The happy blending of deep 
pathos and hearty humor in his imbodiment made the 
performance a memorable one. The mise en scene of 
the comedy was truly magnificent. 

The play, in spite of the admirable manner in which 
it was acted, did not meet with the same unequivocal 
species of success which attended the representation of 


324 


AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF AN ACTRESS. 


Armand before an English audience. Yet of twenty- 
seven criticisms by the London press, twenty were 
favorable — perhaps because 

“ The quality of mercy toas strained.” 

The lashings of those critics who disdained that “ quality 
of mercy ” atoned for the leniency of the others. I have 
already alluded to the severity of the Examiner, who pro¬ 
nounced that Mrs. Trollope would, for such a pro¬ 
duction, have received, at the hands of America, a 
compensation very different from the one bestowed upon 
their countrywoman. But the critic gallantly prefaced 
his own condemnation by the more complimentary 
opinion of the Daily Times. 

The savageness of the Morning Post was thus rebuked 
by Punch:— 

“ Mr. Jenkins last week favored the limited world in which he 
moves with a notice of the first representation of Mrs. Mowatt’s 
comedy — Fashion, or Life in New York; a play which, according 
to the Times, ‘ has been acted with success at every chief city in 
the Union,’ and was received at our Olympic here with ‘ tumultuous 
applause. It may,’ says Jenkins, ‘ by some weak persons, be 
thought ungenerous in us, when speaking of the production of a 
lady, and a stranger, if we employ any language that is not highly 
complimentary ; but genius is of no sex.’ And then Jenkins pro¬ 
ceeds to abuse the lady and stranger’s play, elaborately, in every 
particular, with all his mighty soul and gigantic strength. For 
the dead set that he thus makes, he must, of course, have a motive, 
which, had he limited himself to strictures on the production itself, 
might possibly have been supposed to be a no meaner one than an 
excess of critical zeal. But Mr. Jenkins, not content with yelping 
at the play, must needs have a snap at the authoress. ‘ When the 
actors,’ writes gently-sneering Jenkins, ‘ had indulged us with 
another glance at their persons, a very general call from all parts 
of the house brought Mrs. Mowatt on the stage. The noise was 
then tremendous, and the shower of customary bouquets more 
weighty and continuous than we ever remember it to have been 


THE FARCE OF FLORAL SHOWERS. 


325 


The affair was a little overdone ; for not only were the flowers provided 
too profusely, but the lady , in our eyes, appeared to be ready dressed 
for the occasion.' Why could you not have moderated the rancor 
of your pen a little, Jenkins ? Why attack the lady and stranger 
personally ? Is it your individual self, or your order, — Jenkins or 
flunkydom, — that Mrs. Mowatt has offended ? Jenkins, you 
say * that genius is of no sex.’ Neither is criticism, as personified 
by you. At any rate, it is not manly.” 

There was some truth in the “ ready dressed for the 
occasion.” I was nervously uncertain of the success of 
Fashion, and went to the theatre in a morning wrap¬ 
per, that, if the play failed, I might not seem to have 
anticipated a triumph. I passed the evening in a pri¬ 
vate box opening behind the scenes, and only made my 
toilet during the fifth act, when the success of the 
play was insured. As for the floral showers, those are 
always more or less a conventional farce. The friends 
of the performer usually arm themselves with bouquets, 
and the management as frequently prepare a second 
supply. I am not aware that the latter was the case at 
the production of Fashion ; but it might have been. At 
all events, the number of personal friends who were 
present might well account for the parterreASke aspect 
of the stage during my reception. It is a mistake to 
suppose that the bouquet rain is ever a sign of the esti¬ 
mation in which an actor is held by the public in gen¬ 
eral, though it is often the evidence of private esteem. 
Sometimes the same bouquet is made to do service more 
than once during an evening. 

The critics who condemned Fashion seemed to 
hold my country responsible for its shortcomings. 
Those who awarded the meed of praise in turn bestowed 
their eulogiums upon America, as due to her through 
one of her children. 


326 


AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF AN ACTRESS. 


The Sun prefaces its lengthy and laudatory criticism 
with the following: — 

“ America is worthily repaying the dramatic debt she owes us. 
The seeds of the dramatic art, which have been scattered by all our 
best dramatic artistes broadcast on the American soil, have fructi¬ 
fied, and are now bearing fruit. America has, -within the last three 
years, given us Miss Cushman, the greatest tragedian at present on 
the stage ; Mrs. Mowatt, the most interesting of young tragedians, 
the most ladylike of genteel comedians, the only lady who has 
shown herself capable of taking Miss Foote’s line of characters since 
Miss Foote left the stage; Mr. Davenport, one of the most ener¬ 
getic and powerful actors of melodrama that has appeared of late 
years, and whose powers as a legitimate tragedian and as a genteel 
comedian are of no common order ; besides a host of excellent 
delineators of Yankee peculiarities. But America has not given us, 
until last night, any play that would stand the test of representation 
before a London audience. Rough and ranting melodramas have 
formed the staple of what America had hitherto sent us ; but last 
night this reproach was wiped out, and there was represented at the 
Olympic Theatre, with the most deserved success, an original Ameri¬ 
can five-act comedy, the scene of which is laid in New York, and 
which delineates American manners after the same fashion as our 
own Garrick, Colman, and Sheridan were accustomed to delineate 
English manners, and which, as regards plot, construction, charac¬ 
ter, or dialogue, is worthy to take its place by the side of the best of 
English comedies.” 

It will be observed that this critic ignores the repre¬ 
sentation of Armand, which was produced at the Mary- 
lebone a year before, and also of Velasco, produced at 
the same theatre. The Literary Gazette is less oblivi¬ 
ous, though not so unqualifiedly eulogistic. Its review 
of the play has the following opening: — 

“ In the barrenness of home authorship, in the spirit of humilia¬ 
tion which attaches to our dependence upon the French for a mon¬ 
grel dramatic literature, the public will greet with satisfaction the 
quasi-English production of an American author; and to this author 
even a qualified approval, tendered in spite of English self-love, 
must be gratifying. It became a fair and accomplished lady to 


FASHION IN LONDON. 


327 


venture on the hazardous undertaking wnich Mrs. Mowatt achieved , 
for the second time, on Wednesday last, in the new arena of her 
exploits. The play is styled a comedy, and is entitled Fashion; 
but we would rather consider it what our neighbors call un tableau 
de mceurs. 

Fashion ran two weeks, a much shorter period than 
Armand. On some evenings the republican sentiments 
met with ebullitions of displeasure from the audience 
One night there was a very decided hiss at some of 
Adam Trueman’s animadversions. With admirable 
presence of mind Mr. Davenport paused, coolly folded 
his arms, fixed his eyes upon that portion of the theatre 
from which the hiss proceeded, and waited for the 
decision of the audience, demanding by his manner 
whether the majority were prepared to sanction such 
an interruption. His perfect self-possession probably 
saved the play. A torrent of applause silenced the 
hisses of disapprobation, and commanded the perform¬ 
ance to proceed. 

Fashion was first published February, 1850. 

I can never recall the London and New York repre¬ 
sentations of this comedy without remembering the sad 
histories of the English and American personators of 
Prudence, the Yankee spinster, perhaps the most comic 
character in the play ; though I never intended it to be 
so, and never understood how it became so. I give a 
brief sketch of these sorely-tried “ servants of the stage,” 
in illustration of the mental discipline practised by 
actors, and of their absolute self-renunciation, in laying 
aside the most heartrending sorrows during the fulfil¬ 
ment of their duty. 

Mrs. Parker, a most estimable woman and excellent 
actress, was the representative of Prudence in London. 
While the play was in rehearsal she suddenly received 



328 


AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF AN ACTRESS. 


a telegraphic despatch from Brighton, announcing that 
her husband was at the point of death. He had for 
several years been a victim to consumption. She 
hastened to him, and arrived in time to receive his 
dying thanks and parting words of tenderness. They 
had been united twenty-five years. The bond of 
mutual love between them seems to have been of the 
most holy kind, proved by love’s highest tests — constan¬ 
cy and unselfishness. For years the devoted wife had 
supported her invalid husband and their children by 
her exertions on the stage. 

When the last offices were performed, she returned 
to London. Fashion was to be produced in a couple 
of days more. If the part assigned to her were given to 
another while she indulged her natural grief, she could 
not demand the salary so necessary for the support of 
her children. Her only means of livelihood would be 
cut off for the length of time that the play ran. She 
begged to be excused from rehearsal as far as possible, 
but informed the management that she would perform 
her duty on the evening that the comedy was produced. 

Who amongst the audience, that witnessed her comic 
delineation of the self-satisfied spinster, suspected that 
an agonized heart was masking its expression in the 
fictitious smiles that awakened their mirth ? I shall 
never forget the look of intense but suppressed grief on 
her careworn countenance, when, as I was passing be¬ 
hind the scenes one evening, I stopped to speak to her 
and to thank her for her efforts. She was leaning against 
one of the wings, waiting for her cue to appear upon the 
stage. Her little daughter, of six years old, was holding 
her hand, and gazing up in the mother’s face with a look 
of childish but troubled wonder. She was too young to 
feel her loss. 


TOUCHING HISTORIES. 


329 


I expressed to Mrs. Parker my regrets that she 
should be forced to exert herself while in so unfit a state. 
Trying to conceal her emotion, but with lips that quiv¬ 
ered uncontrollably, she answered, “ Perhaps it is best 
for me; I should soon be quite useless if I dared give 

way; and the children -” She could not finish 

her sentence, but turned her face from me, as she drew 
the little one at her side more closely to her. A moment 
afterwards she was on the stage, and I could hear the 
peals of laughter that followed her entrance. 

Was not duty the strongest instinct of this high¬ 
hearted woman’s nature? Was not her victory over 
self a triumph that thousands who have sunk into a 
state of inactive dejection, under the pressure of a simi¬ 
lar sorrow, might bow before and acknowledge as holy ? 

Mrs. Knight was the original personator of Pru¬ 
dence in New York. Her name is endeared to the 
American public by a host of pleasant associations. 
Her talents were long the delight of audiences who used 
to crowd the Park Theatre in the good old times. When 
I became acquainted with her she was a widow, resid¬ 
ing with her brother, for whom she had a sort of twin- # 
like attachment. Her hopes were all centred upon an 
only daughter, a lovely being of seventeen. When 
Mrs. Knight was first presented to me this sweet girl 
stood by her side, eagerly listening to our conversation. 
I can vividly recall the delicate bloom of her cheek, 
the lustrous eyes, the finely-rounded form, that seemed 
glowing with health and the enjoyment 

“ Of life’s pure pleasures manifold.” 

We never met again until Fashion was reproduced 
after my own debut , and I enacted the character of 



330 


AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF AN ACTRESS. 


Gertrude. Mrs. Knight personated Prudence, as be¬ 
fore. Grief had made such ravages in her face that I 
scarcely recognized her when we encountered each 
other behind the scenes. Her daughter’s summons had 
come, shortly after I first saw her, in the form of con¬ 
sumption. She lingered a few months, filling her mother’s 
breaking heart with alternate hopes and fears, and then 
departed. The bereaved mother had been completely 
crushed by the blow; yet there she stood, fantastically 
attired for a comedy, though life had become to her the 
saddest of tragedies. I watched her when she appeared 
on the stage, and could not perceive that her perform¬ 
ance had lost any of the humor by which it had been 
formerly characterized; but in reality, every look, every 
word, every action was a mere mechanical effort — the 
body went through a set routine while the spirit was 
far away. When she left the stage, I twice saw her 
throw herself into a chair and burst into a flood of 
tears. At the stage summons, the scalding drops were 
hastily wiped away; but they seemed to reflow spon¬ 
taneously the instant she was no longer within sight of 
the audience. 

Some years afterwards I visited her in London. 
Her sorrow still rankled. Time, the great consoler, 
had poured no balm into the wound. Profuse weeping 
had brought on a disease of the eyes, and she had left 
the stage. She was still residing with her brother, to 
whom she clung as to her only earthly hope. Such a 
history speaks for itself; it needs no comment. 

To these narrations I am tempted to add one more, 
in exemplification of the same class of virtues. I was 
not an eye witness to the facts; they were related to me 
by a friend. 


STAGE TRIALS. 


331 


Mr. Macready was representing Macbeth at Drury 
Lane. An actress of great public and private excel¬ 
lence personated Lady Macbeth. She was in the act 
of going upon the stage, when a letter was placed in her 
hands by the messenger of the theatre. She glanced at 
the handwriting and turned deadly pale — but her cue 
had been spoken by Macbeth. She thrust the letter in 
her bosom, and walked firmly upon the stage. When 
the curtain fell upon the close of the third act, my friend 
saw her with trembling hands hastily tear open the 
missive. She uttered one exclamation of intense agony, 
and with a face rigid as marble, but tearless eyes, re¬ 
folded the epistle. My friend asked her what had 
happened; but she could not command herself to answer. 
Stifling down her emotion, she hurried to her dressing 
room. The curtain rose for the fourth act. At the call 
boy’s summons she reappeared, and with forced com¬ 
posure concluded the part of Lady Macbeth. It was 
not until the curtain fell, and her professional duty was 
at an end for the night, that her grief broke forth in 
tears and in words. The letter apprised her of the 
death of her husband, whom she had watched over with 
the truest womanly devotion through the most terrible 
of trials. He was a lunatic. 


CHAPTER XIX. 


Ariadne. — English Version, by John Oxenford. — Closing Catas¬ 
trophe. — The three Ariadnes. — Leaping the Rock. — Marie de 
Meranie. — The Misanthrope. — Uxmal. — Lovers' Amazements. 

— Jealousy of Actors. — Afflicting Tidings. — Loss of Memory. 

— Disastrous Close of the Olympic Theatre. — Charge brought 
agaimt the Manager. — Attack of Brain Fever. — First Con¬ 
sciousness. — Dr. W — tt’s Communications. — The Manager’s 
Trial. — Conviction. — Insanity. — Self-Destruction. — Mr. Mow- 
att's Return to England. — Shorn Tresses. — Journey to Malvern. 


The classic tragedy of Ariadne was produced during 
this season at the Olympic. The Ariane of Thomas 
Corneille, the younger brother (by twenty years) of 
the great Pierre Corneille, father of the French drama, 
♦ was rendered into English blank verse by John Oxen¬ 
ford, Esq. The French Ariane is one of Rachel’s most 
magnificent personations. The female interest predomi¬ 
nates throughout the play. Indeed, it is almost a mono¬ 
logue, and the character of Ariane affords rich capabili¬ 
ties for the display of tragic powers. La Harpe says 
truly of Ariane, “ Cette piece est au rang de celles qu’on 
joue souvent , lorsqitune actrice veutse distinguer par un 
I'dle capable de la faire valoir .” 

The greenest laurels I ever w T on in London (at least 
of the Melpomene chaplet) were awarded to the inter¬ 
pretation of the wronged Greek maiden. 

Mr. Davenport represented Theseus, and looked the 
hero — the author permits no more. 

Phoedra, sister of Ariadne, rendered by a mediocre 

( 332 ) 


ARIADNE. 


333 


actress, would have been an unimpressive character; 
but Miss Vining, in the fourth act, electrified the audi¬ 
ence by Plioedra’s passionate burst of remorse after she 
had consented to betray her sister and fly with The¬ 
seus. 

In Thomas Corneille’s version, Ariadne is not suc¬ 
cored by the god Bacchus, according to the old classical 
story; but on the discovery of her abandonment by 
Theseus, she falls upon a sword and expires. The 
catastrophe is altered by Mr. Oxenford in the English 
version. A very startling scenic effect is produced by 
the leaping of Ariadne from a rock, and her plunging 
into the sea, while the ship of Theseus is disappearing 
in the distance. 

The stage execution of this novel termination was 
managed in a manner worthy of mention. Three Ari- 
adnes, all similarly costumed, and twin in resemblance, 
lent their aid to the accomplishment of the thrilling 
disaster. 

The closing scene of the play represents a wildly 
picturesque portion of the Island of Naxos. In the 
distance rolls the sea. On one side a ledge of rocks 
rises to a dizzy height. From these there juts out a 
single peak — the loftiest summit of the island. Ari¬ 
adne is pacing the shore when the terrible intelligence 
is disclosed that she is deserted by Theseus, and that 
Phoedra hag fled in his company. A moment after¬ 
wards she beholds in the distance the ship which is 
bearing the fugitives to Athens. Frenzied at the 
sight, she rushes up the rocks, and climbs the highest 
peak, to catch the last glimpse of the vessel. When it 
disappears she is overcome by despair, and leaps into 
the sea. 


334 


AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF AN ACTRESS. 


The climbing of these rocks, and the execution of the 
theatrical stratagem by which the leap appears to be 
made by Ariadne, was a rather perilous experiment for 
a person of impetuous temperament and easily carried 
away by an exciting personation. It was decided that 
I could not be trusted to make the dangerous ascent. 
A young girl was selected from the ballet who strongly 
resembled me. Ariadne’s Grecian robe, with its rich 
border of blue and gold, her double crown and jewelled 
zone, were duplicated for my counterfeit — Ariadne 
the second. But this was not all; the classic costume 
had to be again repeated for the toilet of Ariadne the 
third — a most lifelike lay figure. The face, arms, and 
bust of the latter were modelled from a statue, and 
were too faultless for the other two Ariadnes to object 
to their inanimate representative. 

It was found no easy matter at rehearsal to persuade 
our timid Ariadne, the second,to even walk up the steep 
# rocks. She stopped and shrieked half way, protested 
she was dizzy and might fall, and would not advance s 
step farther. After about half an hour’s delay, during 
which the poor girl was encouraged, coaxed, and scoldeu 
abundantly, she allowed the carpenter who planned the 
rocky pathway to lead her carefully up and down the 
declivity; and finally she rushed up alone. Our lay 
representative was couched at the top, ready for her 
flight through the air. Ariadne the second,.at a certain 
cue, suddenly falls upon her face, concealed frofia the 
audience by an intercepting rock. At the same moment 
a spring is touched, and the lay figure, with uplifted 
arms, leaps from the cliff, and drops into the abyss 
beneath. 

At night, Ariadne the first, on beholding the ship ot 


THE THREE ARIADNES. 


335 


Theseus, uttered a prolonged shriek, broke away from 
King CEnarus and his friends who impeded her steps, and 
flew up the rocks; but, turning a cliff at no great height 
from the stage, sprang off behind the scenes in the arms 
of a person stationed to receive her. Steps for her 
descent were found unavailable. At the instant Ari¬ 
adne the first disappeared, Ariadne the second darted 
from behind the cliff, and swiftly clambered the rocky 
heights until she reached their very summit. Ariadne 
the first uttered the.impassioned language of the Greek 
maiden from behijid the scenes, while Ariadne the 
second was toiling up the rocks, and supposed to be 
speaking. At the words, “ Die, Ariadne, die! ” from 
the lips of Ariadne first, Ariadne second sinks upon the 
rock, and Ariadne third made her first appearance, and 
unhesitatingly sprang into the sea. 

The resemblance of the three Ariadnes must have 
been striking, for I have been told the changes could 
not be detected by the most powerful opera glass. 

The illusion was so perfect, that on the first night of 
the representation, when Ariadne leaped the rock, a man 
started up in the pit, exclaiming, in a tone of genuine 
horror, “ Good God! she is killed! ” 

The success of Ariadne determined the manager to 
offer the public a series of new plays. This announce¬ 
ment caused some of the first dramatists in London to 
devote their talents to the interest of the theatre. 

The first play accepted was the historical tragedy of 
Marie de Meranie, by Mr. Marston, author of the 
Patrician’s Daughter, Strathmore, &c. I was to per¬ 
sonate Queen Marie.* 

* This play was eventually produced by Miss Faucit, at the 
Olympic. 


336 


AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF AN ACTRESS. 


The Misanthrope, by Douglas Jerrold, was the next 
drama put in rehearsal. Mr. Jerrold read his play to 
the assembled company in the greenroom. Miss 
Yining and myself were both called to the reading. It 
was anticipated that I would decline the role of the 
heroine — the part would, in that case, be enacted by 
Miss Yining. Mr. Jerrold expressed a desire that I 
should imbody the character, in spite of its avowed 
insignificance; and, after listening to two acts, I con¬ 
sented. 

A new classical drama, entitled Uxmal, by Mr. He- 
raud, containing many original situations and some 
poetry of a high order, was under consideration, and 
would have been accepted. 

Added to these, Leigh Hunt had sent to me his drama 
of Lovers’ Amazements, with the hope that I would be 
the means of introducing it to the public. This drama 
had been written some years. Leigh Hunt states that 
# the equal amount of interest with which the four princi¬ 
pal characters are invested had been the barrier to the 
play’s production. The larger portion of leading 
actors dread a rival on the dramatic field whom the 
author has furnished with weapons as powerful as their 
own. Lovers’ Amazements was, however, accepted at 
the Olympic, and the characters were to have been 
filled by Mr. Davenport, Mr. Brooke, Miss Yining, and 
myself. 

The proverbial jealousy which characterizes even 
many distinguished members of the profession may be 
detected in various ways by an audience; and it is well 
that it should be. The following are a few enlightening 
hints: — 

One strong evidence of jealousy makes itself apparent 


JEALOUSY OF ACTORS. 


337 


when an actor “ backs up the stage,” as it is called, 
while another is delivering important speeches addressed 
to him, thus compelling the speaker to turn his back to 
the audience, or talk over his shoulder to a person 
behind him. When the parties on the stage do not 
stand side by side, or in a semicircle, if several chance 
to occupy the stage at the same time, the proper situa¬ 
tion of the one who has the most important passages to 
deliver (be he star or the humblest subordinate) is a 
little in retreat of the others. In this position he faces 
the audience, and yet looks towards those whom he is 
addressing. Few are the leading actors who will accord 
this just privilege to an actor of inferior rank. 

Another straw by which a shrewd observer may 
detect which way the wind of envy blows, is the readi¬ 
ness of an actor to interrupt the applause which the 
audience are about to bestow upon another, by hasten¬ 
ing his own replies when he finds the plaudits about to 
commence. An audience who would follow the play 
are thus compelled to be silent; and, through the trick 
of an envious brother, the actor loses the encouragement 
upon which many depend for inspiration. 

When an actor distracts the attention of the audi¬ 
ence by inappropriate or superabundant by-play, or 
fidgeting and muttering while another actor is deliver¬ 
ing effective language, it is a certain symptom of the 
narrowmindedness which dreads to behold a rival win 
public favor. 

The perfect representation of a play demands that 
every actor should be allowed the untrammelled use of 
his abilities. It is often in the power of the audience 
themselves to secure him this desirable privilege. 

While the four new plays which I have mentioned 

22 


338 


AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF AN ACTRESS. 


above were in course of preparation, our tidings from 
the invalid at Trinidad grew sadder than ever. Letters 
written by a hand so feeble that it seemed hardly able 
to guide the pen confirmed our worst fears. The arri 
val of every steamer became a day of dread. Every 
letter was the herald of a fresh alarm, until the pulses 
of Hope were almost stopped, or “ changed to long 
despairs.” 

Just at this period letters from America brought in¬ 
telligence of an exciting and distressing nature. These 
combined sorrows had a serious effect upon my already 
overtasked mind. I lost the power of mental concen¬ 
tration so essential on the stage. Worse yet, I lost my 
memory, which up to that period had been “ marble to 
retain.” Sometimes while personating characters with 
which I was most familiar, which I had acted again and 
again without altering a syllable of the text, the words 
would suddenly fade from my thoughts; I could not 
recall even the subject of the dialogue. Prompting was 
useless. Now and then I recovered myself l>y a deter¬ 
mined effort; more frequently I had to depend upon my 
sympathizing fellow-laborers to conceal as far as possi¬ 
ble my entire obliviousness. Behind the scenes I kept 
the book of the play in my hand, and studied continually, 
but to no purpose. I constantly went upon the stage in 
an agony of dread, uncertain whether I could struggle 
through the coming scene. The theatre became to me 
a region full of terrors. 

I must relate as rapidly as possible the events next in 
order. They are too painful to be dwelt upon. I would 
gladly omit them could I do so conscientiously. Against 
the manager of the Olympic Theatre, whose many chari¬ 
ties, whose great liberality, and unvarying kindnes* 


BRAIN FRYER. 


339 


had won him the respect and esteem of the whole com¬ 
pany, were brought appalling charges. He had been, 
for many years, the accountant of an Assurance Asso¬ 
ciation. He was accused of some species of fraud or 
embezzlement. I believe these were not the legal 
terms used — it was, however, their meaning. The 
theatre was suddenly closed, the company scattered — 
the manager, confident, to all appearance, of being 
acquitted, gave himself up for trial. 

Several days previous to the occurrence of this last 
terrible event, I had become so seriously ill that my 
name was withdrawn from the hills. Miss Yining as¬ 
sumed the characters which I usually personated. The 
new shock completed what an accumulation of sorrows 
had begun. Immediately after the closing of the thea¬ 
tre, I was attacked with brain fever. The four suc¬ 
ceeding months are a blank to me. There are no distinct 
records in the book of memory. 

My first recollection is of opening my eyes (from sleep, 

as I thought) upon the countenance of Dr. W-tt, 

who was intently gazing in my face. He was sitting by 
my bed. A nurse, whose kind features were unfamiliar 
to me, stood on one side — on the other a much-loved 
female friend. I did not recognize the room in which I 
was lying. I had been removed there during my ill¬ 
ness. I remember hearing the doctor whisper to my 
friend, “ Hush! She is coming to herself.” He asked 
me if I knew him. I answered in the affirmative, and 
thought the question an odd one; for he was a phy¬ 
sician whose friendship I greatly prized. Of the lapse 

of time I had not the remotest conception. Dr. W- 

wisely determined not to deceive me in regard to my 
illness or any of the events which had taken place 



340 


AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF AN ACTRESS. 


during my long unconsciousness. At my eag&r in¬ 
quiries he took up the broken chain of memory, and 
supplied the missing links. Mr. Mowatt had returned 
to England some months previous — he was better — I 
should soon be allowed to see him. 

The theatre — it was still closed. It had been opened 
but one night, and that was on the occasion of a benefit 
given to Miss Yining. The company were heavy losers. 
The manager — very gently the kind doctor communi¬ 
cated the fearful intelligence that related to him. He 
had been tried — convicted — severely sentenced; the 
shock had overpowered his reason; he had perished 
the same night by his own hand. The jury of inquest 
had brought in a verdict of “ temporary insanity.” 

I cannot attempt any description of my meeting with 
the one being whose sufferings had been as great as my 
own; greater, for I retained no recollection of physical 
afflictions. Through the sunshine of joy that irradiated 
his face I could trace many a deep furrow, ploughed by 
grief and disease, which was not there when we parted. 
His health was still in the most precarious state, though 
he had rallied during the spring months. He landed 
in England before any letter could apprise him of my 
illness. 

During his absence, and after his return, I had been 
most tenderly nursed by faithful friends, to whose un¬ 
wearied devotion I have every reason to believe I owe 
my life. 

How well I recall the strange thrill that ran through 
me when I first lifted my hand to my head ! The long, 
abundant tresses had disappeared. A few round rings 
of hair were left in their place. They told me that my 
physician and friends were very anxious that my hair 


SHORN TRESSES. 


341 


should be preserved. Its weight encumbered my head 
when confined by comb or band, and when loosened 
became inextricably tangled about my shoulders. I 
constantly entreated that it might be cut off. No one 
was willing to perform the. office. The demand was 
looked upon as the raving of fever. One day I had 
been accidentally left alone for a few minutes, and a pair 
of scissors lay in a work basket near me. I was found 
sitting up in bed, and the shorn ringlets severed closely 
from the head, lying in every direction. The mistress 
of the wardrobe, who on the night of my London debut 
had sneered at the “ heap of hair ” as an unaristocratic 
adornment, would have been well pleased. 

Mr. Mowatt had visited Dr. W -n’s water-cure 

establishment at Malvern. He was very desirous of 
making further trial of hydropathic treatment. I also 
was prepossessed in its favor. In about a fortnight 
after my first return to consciousness I was able to 
accompany him to Malvern. A bed was made for me 
in the railway carriage, and I bore the journey with less 
fatigue than could have been anticipated. 



CHAPTER XX. 


Cottage at Malvern. — Malvern Hills. — Water-cure Establishment. 
—Donkey Rides. — Malvern Donkey Driver. — Adventures on 
Horseback. — Hanly Castle. — Return to London. — Skill of Dr. 

D - n. — A Sufferer's Contemplation of Death. — Interview with 

Dr. D — —n. — Life's hardest Necessity. — A Last Conversation. 
— The Parting. 


A tiny cottage, that looked like a bird’s nest dropped 
m a fairy circle, was our home at Malvern. The min¬ 
iature dwelling stood in the centre of a garden so 
luxuriant that the floral beauties, crowding cheek to 
cheek, struggling to overtop each other, seemed engaged 
in a perpetual contention which should unfold most 
loveliness to the sun or fling most fragrance on the 
breeze. Close to the cottage 

“ Rose trees, either side the door, were 
Growing lithe and growing tall; 

Each one set a summer warder 
For the keeping of the hall — 

With a red rose, and a white rose, leaning, nodding at the wall.” 

Standing in the little garden, facing the cottage, a 
range of magnificent hills formed the background of the 
landscape — hills that appeared to be young mountains 
just gaining their growth. These Malvern hills were 
the scene of Langlande’s poetic visions. Their pic¬ 
turesque grandeur must have filled any dreamer’s brain 
with shapes of ideal beauty, and may have given birth 
to many an unpenned inspiration. 


(349 


MALVERN JILLS. 


343 


Upon an eminence, a short distance from our cottage, 

stood Dr. W-n’s water-cure establishment. Both 

invalids sought the benefits of hydropathy, and wefe 

attended daily by Dr. W-n. But candor compels 

me to say that only one adhered to the rules enforced 
at the establishment. After the first month, during 
which period my health made little visible progress, I 
decided by my own feelings what portion of the treat¬ 
ment agreed with me, and discarded that which did not. 

Before long I was able to mount a donkey, one of 
the most docile and obedient specimens of that much- 
abused race. I generally rose soon after the sun had 
set me the example, and, while the morning mists were 
rolling up the hills, my gentle donkey carried me to 
their summit. The eye never wearied of daguerreo- 
typing the rich panorama that encircled these mountain¬ 
like hills. On every side fresh prospects were unfolded 
— their aspect varying with the changing lights. I 
spent many an hour watching, in wondering admiration, 
the kaleidoscope hues of each new scenic phase. 

Once or twice Mr. Mowatt accompanied me in a 
garden chair, but the exercise was found too fatiguing. 
I took my daily donkey excursions, attended only by 
the boy driver walking at the donkey’s side. This 
youth was born beneath the shadow of Malvern hills, 
and often amused me with his original conceptions of 
the world beyond. We exchanged opinions on various 
subjects; and now and then, under the startling influ¬ 
ence of a new idea, he would come to a sudden stop in 
his trotting walk, and exclaim, “ Good golly! you 
don’t believe that now — sur dy (pronounced* lie) you 
doesn’t! ” Who can say through what narrow crevices 
the light of truth may shine in upon a darkened mind ? 




344 


AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF AN ACTRESS. 


What tiny seed, casually scattered, may take root in 
unbroken soil and spring heavenward ? 

I believe I reciprocated some of the donkey-boy’s 
chagrin when his attendance was no longer needed and 
the donkey was exchanged for a horse. A solemn- 
looking steed it was, decidedly advanced in years, and 
warranted to have renounced all youthful indiscretions. 
Trusting to his good character, I started upon my first 
ride unattended. The ladies at Malvern frequently 
make excursions on horseback alone. My staid-looking 
Pegasus unexpectedly ran away with me, and was 
stopped by some countrymen. We subsequently learned 
that he was once quite a celebrated racer, and had won 
several trophies. The approach of age had caused his 
present retirement into private life. 

I rode him every day for six weeks ; and he never ran 
away with me but once more, and then he was influ¬ 
enced by the dangerous effect of bad example. I was 
riding with a friend. Her horse took fright and ran. 
Mine called to mind his ancient victories, and did not 
choose to appear wanting in spirit. The two horses 
passed each other again and again on the road, both 
riders being unable to hold them in. I could only cry 
out to my friend, as I darted by her, “ Keep your seat, 
Fanny — keep your seat, and there is no danger!” 
Her exhausted “ I can’t! I can’t! ” terrified me so 
much, that by a sudden impulse I turned my horse’s 
head into a hawthorn hedge. He stopped suddenly, 
and evinced some slight displeasure at the indignity. 
On looking back I saw my friend lying upon her horse, 
almost insensible, and a gentleman holding her reins 
with those of his own horse. I rode back to them. 
The stranger proved to be a physician. We supported 


HANLY CASTLE. 


345 


the now helpless equestrian between us, and walked our 
horses to Hanly Castle, which was just in sight. The 
castle is occupied by some of the descendants of Sir 
Thomas Lucy, of' Charlecote and Shakspearian memory. 
We alighted, and my friend was carried into the house. 
Our unexpected but most gracious host and hostess 
tenderly ministered to the sufferer, and for some time 
after she revived would not allow us to leave their 
hospitable roof. The horses were sent home by a 
groom, with a message informing Mr. Mowatt of our 
safety. About an hour afterwards the carriage of our 
host was brought to the door, and he accompanied us 
home. From that time I rode alone, and found my 
sedate steed more manageable than when in company. 

After four months’ sojourn in Malvern we returned 
to London. Towards the close of our stay Mr. Mowatt 
had grown rapidly worse. He almost entirely lost the 
use of his limbs. The strong arms of a friend were 
needed to bear him from his sofa to the carriage. All 
his energies, physical and mental, appeared suddenly to 
fail. Night brought to his sufferings no oblivious balm, 
morning no invigorating relief. 

At this crisis, the entreaties of friends induced us to 

call in the celebrated Dr. D-n, the discoverer and 

promulgator of the chrono-thermal practice of medi¬ 
cine. We were already personally acquainted with him 
and his lovely wife — and were familiar with certain 
of his cures, which almost deserve the name of mar¬ 
vellous. With his coming departing hope dawned anew, 
and once more painted the bow of promise upon our 
future. His skill procured the sufferer almostdnstanta- 
neous relief—arresting the disease which was beyond 
mortal cure. 



346 


AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF AN ACTRESS. 


The invalid was now confined entirely to his bed, 
but the spirit of pain had been exorcised. A holy calm 
diffused itself about that death bed, as though the breath¬ 
ings of good angels enveloped it with a heavenly aura. 
The veil of eternity was falling around it — not in fu¬ 
nereal blackness that speaks of annihilation, but in the 
golden and purple folds of promise, descending from 
the “ new heavens.” To him who lay upon that couch, 
in purified patience of spirit, Death was a smiling angel 
of invitation, throwing open the crystal portals of the 
future, and joyfully beckoning the new guest into man¬ 
sions of more perfect life — a life of holier uses — more 
ineffable joys — more conscious individuality — more 
angelic progression. Very often, with placid brow and 
in serene tones, he spoke of the coming change. His 
faith was so full of living, quickening certainty , that it 
rebuked the tears whose rebellious fall would have pro¬ 
faned such a death bed. He had not dwelt in the 
suburbs of the Holy City, but entered into its innermost 
temple. The doctrines of the New Church had not 
been received into his memory merely, but had come 
forth into his daily life , and been inscribed upon his 
heart. A never-wavering trust had cast out fear, and 
given to the foot of the Summoner the sound of music. 

His worldly arrangements were made with the me¬ 
thodical precision that usually characterized his actions — 
his still-entangled affairs were smoothed as far as pos¬ 
sible. That over, his own words were, “I am ready to 
go; yet I have found sweetness enough in this life to be 
willing to stay.” “ Thy will, not mine ! ” was his spirit’s 
true expression. 

A couple of months passed on, and the invalid grew 
decidedly better. He never left his bed, yet he gained 


life’s hardest necessity. 


347 


strength — his sight was partially restored — his ever- 
cheerful bearing often verged upon actual gayety. The 
skill of his physician was fighting a hard battle with the 
great conqueror. 

His symptoms became so favorable that I could not 
but cling to the probability that he might yet recover. 
After a time he did the same. My own health, which 
was not entirely restored when I left Malvern, under 
the care of Dr. D-n became thoroughly reestab¬ 

lished, and I had need for all my strength. 

My long illness had commenced in the spring — 
winter was approaching. As soon as my perfect res¬ 
toration became known, I had numerous offers for the¬ 
atrical engagements. Then, for the first time, Mr. 
Mowatt disclosed to me that by far the larger portion 
of all we possessed, the hard earnings of a long period 
of exertion, had, for business purposes, been left in the 
hands of the manager of the Olympic Theatre. 

In his ruin it had been swept away. It became 
needful that I should resume my labors the instant I 
felt able. I pass over what this intelligence was to me. 
Life in all its bitter necessities — its hard requirements 
— had brought no extremity that tried me as did this. 

My most advantageous offers were in the provinces. 
I must leave my vigils beside a couch which I still be¬ 
lieved might be the bed of death, to wear the mockery 
of glittering robes in the frigid atmosphere of a theatre. 

I sought a private interview with Dr. D-n, and 

entreated him to disclose to me his patient’s true con¬ 
dition. The doctor’s reluctance to comply with my 
request was almost answer sufficient. I ‘told him 
frankly our exact situation, and implored him not to 
conceal from me the truth.. I shall never forget or 




348 


AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF AN ACTRESS. 


cease to be grateful for the feeling which he exhibited. 
His answer was, “ I have seen so many wonders ef¬ 
fected by a proper medical treatment, that I am never 
inclined to say that a recovery is impossible. In the 
case of Mr. Mowatt, I fear that it is improbable. No 
one can decide how long he may live. It may be a few 
months, and it may be much longer.” 

u Might the time be even shorter ? ” 

“ It might be ; but he appears so much better that I 
dc not anticipate any immediate danger. 

“ And what must I do ? ” 

“ Any thing rather than excite him by opposition, 
if you would not produce fatal consequences.” 

“ Do you mean to say that I must leave London and 
fulfil some of these engagements ? for the most ad¬ 
vantageous one, the one he entreats me to accept, is 
in Dublin.” 

“ Yes; if he is bent upon it, you must go.” 

I dreaded nothing so much as beholding “ cares for 
the morrow ” reenter, with disturbing influence, the now 
peaceful mind of one whose morrows on earth were 
numbered. Without further hesitation, I told him I 
would go. Richly did his reply reward the struggle 
for self-government which enabled me to make the 
decision. 

The Dublin engagement was accepted for January. 
I was to remain absent but three weeks, and then hasten 
back to London. 

Mr. Davenport was at that period engaged at the 
Haymarket Theatre, having been selected by Mr. Ma- 
cready as his support during his farewell of the stage. 
This precluded the possibility of Mr. Davenport’s ac¬ 
companying me. It was finally decided that I should 


A L’AST CONVERSATION. 


34 & 


make the journey alone, attended by Mrs. Renshaw in 
the capacity of lady’s maid. Her name has before 
been mentioned in these memoirs as the person whose 
courage saved the life of a young girl at the Maryle- 
bone Theatre. This instance of presence of mind, 
added to her well-known respectability and her accom¬ 
plishments as a costumer, caused her to be selected by 
Mr. Mowatt as a trustworthy companion. She had offi¬ 
ciated as mistress of the wardrobe in two theatres, but 
had never before entered service. She had been a 
widow for more than twenty years. The maid whom 
I have several times alluded to in previous chapters 
was her elder sister, and had waited upon me ever since 
I came to London. She was at this period Mr. Mow- 
att’s nurse, a very pattern of devotion and patience, 
and was to remain with him. 

The night before I commenced my journey, the inva¬ 
lid called me to his bedside. He pointed out a small 
trunk, and said, that, should it be the will of our Lord 
that this parting was our last on earth, I would 
find in that trunk several letters — one of which he 
trusted would prove full of comfort. The doctor had 
warned me to give way to no emotion ; and I could but 
listen in silence while he spoke of the future, the pres¬ 
ent, the past. He talked of the child who had walked 
by his side to school — of the young girl he had edu¬ 
cated, the spring days of whose existence he had 
filled with earth’s rosiest hues; of the companion whom, 
when life ceased to be a pastime, God had gifted with 
strength to bear one half the appointed burden. It was 
past midnight when I left him, sinking peacefully to 
sleep; and 

“ I charged my soul to hold my body strengthened for the sun.” 


350 


AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF AN ACTRESS. 


Well I might; for with that morning came the fixed con¬ 
viction that I was looking for the last time upon a face 
which, at least when it turned to me, had ever been 
full of tenderness. 

The train for Liverpool started soon after daylight. 
Long before that period Mrs. Renshaw had been 
called to the bedside of the invalid, and I was asked to 
complete my preparations in my own little room ad¬ 
joining. 

When I was again summoned, I did not inquire what 
had been the subject of conversation. I soon discov¬ 
ered it when I found that I had not a settled peculiarity 
— an odd fancy — an especial taste with which my 
companion had not suddenly become acquainted. True 
to her promise, she used her best endeavors to gratify 
the tastes, yield to the fancies, and respect the pecu¬ 
liarities. When her perfect knowledge of my ways 
drew from me many a surprised “ Who told you to do 
that ? ” or, “ How did you know I liked that ? ” there was 
always the same answer. 

The moment of parting came. The suffering one 
left behind retained his smiling composure to the end. 
For me, I might well be thankful that his last words 
were a blessing; for I never heard the sound of his 
voice again. 


CHAPTER XXL 


• 

The Iron Duke. —Arrival in Dublin.—A Dilemma. — “ Unprotect¬ 
ed Females."—Interview with theatrical Housekeeper. — Hunting 
for Lodgings. — The invisible Avant Courrier. — Mr. Calcraft. — 
G. V. Brooke. — First Rehearsal. — Debut at Theatre Royal. — 
Dublin Audience.—Attachment of the Irish to America. — The 
Freeman's Journal. — Production of Armand. — Peculiarities of 
the Dublin Pit and Gallery. — Persecution of an Actor. — An 
amusing Device. — My last Night. — Scene at the Stage Door. — 
Dublin Friends. — The Invalid in London. — Extracts from his 
daily Letters. — Engagement at Newcastle upon Tyne. — Depart¬ 
ure from Dublin. 

We crossed the channel in the steamer called the 
Iron Duke, the strongest and swiftest on the line. I 
found comfort in the name; it accorded with my expe¬ 
riences. Iron seemed the inflexible necessity that 
launched me upon this new and lonely career. Iron¬ 
like must the courage be which could enable me to face 
the future ; of iron the strength which was needed to 
endure the present. 

Every one who has crossed the channel will remem¬ 
ber the physical distress produced by the quick, sharp, 
jerking motion of the waves — far more trying than the 
regular rolling of the ocean. All night the rain poured 
in torrents ; but we were told that our passage was quite 
smooth. “Then Heaven help us through th,e rough 
ones! ” was our involuntary ejaculation. 

At daylight we reached Kingston. The train start¬ 
ed at eight o’clock, and we arrived in Dublin at half 

( 351 ) 


352 


AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF AN ACTRESS. 


past eight. We expected Mr. Calcraft, the lessee and 
manager of the Theatre Royal, where I was engaged, 
to meet us at the station. He was not. there. We 
waited until every passenger had disappeared ; still he 
did not come. What was to be done ? This was my 
first journey unsurrounded by the tender protection of 
relatives or friends, and my London maid had never 
before been sixty miles removed from the sound of 
Bow bells. The two forsaken-looking beings, who, in 
frozen bewilderment, stood shivering beside a huge pile 
of trunks, would have added a speaking addition (though 
they were nearly speechless) to Punch’s portraits of 
“ unprotected females.” We were soon surrounded by 
an army of cabmen, who intermingled their offers to 
transport us “ any where under the face of the sun ” 
with a flood of most ludicrously flattering ejaculations. 
But what would have been the height of impertinence 
in an English cab driver flowed so naturally from the 
lips of a son of green Erin that it disarmed rebuke. 

Not knowing how to dispose of ourselves, for we 
were decidedly overburdened with our own safe keep¬ 
ing, we drove to the theatre in hope of finding the man¬ 
ager. Mr. Calcraft was not there; it was too early in 
the morning. Who was there ? Nobody but the old 
housekeeper, and she was not up. Would she get up ? 
“ Sure and she would, if we could wait,” was the answer 
received. We wrapped ourselves in our travelling 
blankets for protection against the frosty air that whis¬ 
tled in from every side of the loosely-built Irish vehicle, 
and waited. 

By and by the housekeeper thrust her good-humored 
face out of the stage door,* and, after giving us an 


Door leading from behind the scenes. 


IRISH HOUSEKEEPER. 


353 


inquisitive reconnoissance , advanced. There was con¬ 
siderable cap-tying, and hook-and-eyes clasping, and 
other adjustments of her hurried toilet accomplished 
on her way to the carriage. 

I told her who we were. “ Och, and is it the new star 
lady from London ? Sure, and you’re welcome; and it’s 
every body that’s wanting to see you ! ” was her hearty 
salutation. 

I inquired for Mr. Calcraft. He expected us in the 
half past nine o’clock train, and would be at the station 
at that hour. Had he engaged a suite of apartments 
as I had requested by letter? 

“ Sure, and he hasn’t,” was the answer. “ He said 
ye’es wanted three rooms on a floor, opening togither, 
and they wasn’t to be found in all Dublin.” 

“ Did he secure any other rooms for me ? ” 

“ Bless you, no; he was afraid nothing else would 
suit.” 

“ But what am I to do? ” 

“ Lord love ye ! Sure, and we’ll find some place for 
ye the day! Couldn’t ye just step into the theatre 
and wait a while ? ” 

Wait a while in a cold, dark theatre, when we were 
freezing and' starving, and the shelter of a warm room 
was almost indispensable to the prolongation of our 
lives ! 

“ I can’t wait,” I answered ; “ we will look for lodg¬ 
ings ourselves ; if we find them, I will send you the 
address. If not, we will return here.” 

“ Ye don’t mane you’re going hunting for rooms at 
this hour of the morning, and in that hasty sort of a 
style ? ” 


23 


354 


AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF AN ACTRESS. 


“ Yes; I am an American, and we always make 
haste ! ” 

The good woman gave voluble vent to her astonish¬ 
ment at the proposed rapid mode of transacting business. 

What part of the city should we drive to ? was the 
next question; for I was not acquainted with a single 
Dublin locality. My London friends had supplied me 
with letters of introduction. I remembered that the 

address of one, to Lady R-e, was Merrion Square. 

The name sounded musically attractive. Merrion 
Square must be some pleasant place. “ Drive to Mer¬ 
rion Square,” was the order given the coachman, “ and 
stop at the first baker’s or green grocer’s after you 
get there.” 

Merrion Square was quickly reached, and my antici¬ 
pations of the agreeable vicinity were realized. We 
stopped at a green grocery. Mrs. Renshaw alighted, 
and inquired of the smiling grocer’s wife whether there 
were any desirable lodgings to be obtained in the neigh- 
borhorhood. 

She received a direction to three houses that had un¬ 
occupied suites of apartments. Wc drove to the first, 
which was close to the square. The exterior was suf¬ 
ficiently inviting; the interior passed from good to 
better. There were three large, well-furnished rooms 
on the second floor — precisely what we wanted. Ten 
minutes after we stepped from the carriage the rooms 
had been engaged, I was lying on a comfortable sofa, 

and Mrs. R-was preparing a refreshing cup of tea. 

So much for our American mode of helping ourselves. 
Had we trusted to the exertions of our Irish friends, 
possibly these “ consummations devoutly to be wished ” 
might have blessed us about midday, or at nightfall. 




DUBLIN. 


355 


“ This looks like some sort of Aladdin’s lamp busi¬ 
ness ! ” exclaimed my wondering attendant, looking 
around her. “ It seems as though these rooms had been 
all prepared by our just wishing for them, and as if 
they were waiting ready for us to walk in! ” 

It certainly did appear as though some invisible 
avant courrier had made all necessary preparations for 
our comfort and smoothed away every difficulty. 1 
never could get this odd notion out of my head. We 
remained in these singularly-obtained lodgings through 
our whole stay in Dublin, and had ample cause to be 
pleased with them. From our landlady and her truly 
beautiful daughter we received the most devoted atten¬ 
tions. The latter was one of the many perfect speci¬ 
mens of female loveliness which I beheld in Dublin. 
I am half inclined to think that the palm of feminine 
perfection belongs to the daughters of the Emerald Isle. 

In the course of the day Mr. Calcraft called upon me. 
I found him a gentleman of polished manners, accus¬ 
tomed to the most refined society, and highly educated. 
With his dramatic authorship I was already acquainted. 
I had very frequently acted in his version of the Bride 
of Lammermoor. Scott’s thrilling history of the broken¬ 
hearted maiden was originally dramatized by Calcraft 
for Mrs. Henry Siddons. She personated Lucy Ash¬ 
ton a number of times at the Dublin Theatre Royal, of 
which he was manager. I enacted the character upon 
the same stage. 

When I arrived in Dublin Mr. Brooke had just 
fulfilled an engagement of some length. He was re¬ 
engaged to appear with me. His was the only familiar 
face that I saw at my first rehearsal. Lonely I could 
not but feel; but I had no trials to undergo similar to 


356 


AUTOBIOGRAPHY OP AN ACTRESS. 


those which rendered my first rehearsals in Manchester 
and London a species of theatrical purgatory. The 
influence of a gentlemanlike manager was felt through¬ 
out the theatre. The actors were courteous in the 
extreme, and vied with each other in readiness to con¬ 
form to the wishes of the stranger. 

We opened in the Lady of Lyons. I chose that 
character because there is no necessity for exertion in 
the first two acts, and abundance of time to get over 
any attacks of stage fright. 

Happily the dreaded stage demon kept far off from 
me. I scarcely experienced a nervous tremor, and 
never made a more self-possessed first appearance. 

I know of no audience who exert so inspiring an 
influence over an actor as the Dublin. Their thorough 
enjoyment, their quick comprehension, their ready 
responsiveness to exalted sentiments, their genuine 
tokens of delight, often expressed in a comic, and 
always in a hearty manner, bear the performer as upon 
a triumphant wave to the Elysian shores of success. 
Their enthusiasm is contagious, and rouses his energies, 
kindles his ambition, and renders even labor a pleasure. 
To act tamely before that audience would be an impos¬ 
sibility. No genius could slumber in such a vivifying 
atmosphere, no aspirations become weary, no ardor 
grow cold. 

My debut was a highly successful one. The Dublin 
press were prodigal of panegyrics. The spirit of chiv¬ 
alry which always animates the breast of an Irishman 
towards womanhood would have made them regard me 
with favorable eyes; but that I was a stranger, and an 
American, was sufficient excuse for any courteous ex¬ 
travagance. How dear America and her children are 


DUBLIN AUDIENCES. 


357 


to Ireland was proved to me daily, and in many flatter¬ 
ing ways, during my stay in Dublin. 

I quote the paragraph which prefaces the critique 
upon my first performance, which appeared in the 
Freeman’s Journal, to make apparent that, in spite of 
the enthusiasm which I have described as characterizing 
a Dublin audience, they claim for themselves the most 
fastidious discrimination as critics : — 

“ On last evening Mrs. Mowatt appeared for the first time before 
our Dublin audience. This event, doubtless highly interesting to 
the admirers of dramatic novelty, and looked forward to with pleas¬ 
urable anticipations by connoisseurs who constitute critical au¬ 
thority on affairs dramatic, must have been considered an occasion 
* somewhat trying by an artist of whose natural genius and histrionic 
ability public report has spoken so highly, sustained by the ornate 
and elaborate criticisms of the American and English press. 
Throughout the whole range of stage representation, actors and 
actresses, from the highest to the lowest, from Macready and Sid- 
dons to the humblest professor of light comedy, all have dreaded 
the ordeal of a Dublin audience. It might, perhaps, seem needless 
to remind the readers of this journal of the fastidious character of 
that same audience, the most considerate, as it is the most just and 
generous, of any before which true genius has ever presented its 
claims. We would not do so were it not that we •wish to enhance 
the magnitude and the delicacy of the compliment paid on last 
evening by that audience to the fair and gifted actress who came 
before them as a daughter of America — the adopted land of thou¬ 
sands of our countrymen.” 

Armand was produced towards the close of the en¬ 
gagement, and never created a more powerful sensation. 
Mr. Brooke’s delineation of the peasant Armand was 
interrupted by cheers from the commencement to the 
close of the play. The galleries fairly seemed inclined 
to make a descent upon the stage, and carry him off 
upon their shoulders. At the summons before the 
curtain, after the most deafening clamors of applause, 


358 


AUTOBIOGRAPHY OP AN ACTRESS. 


as I was making my final acknowledgment, the cry 
rose of “ Nine cheers for America! ” The pit started to 
their feet, and lustily gave the cheers with waving hats 
and handkerchiefs. When the last peal ceased, the 
orchestra struck up “ Hail, Columbia! ” and drew down 
a new response. Our national air was immediately 
followed by “ St. Patrick’s Day in the Morning,” which 
always creates a furor of patriotic delight. 

The audience are particularly addicted to audible 
criticisms. It was quite usual for them, when struck 
by any of my efforts, to cry out, “ Bravo, America! ” 
“ America forever! ” “ Long life to young America! ” 
The pit and galleries are in the habit of constantly 
addressing the actors upon the stage, expressing grati¬ 
fication or displeasure in very decided terms. “ Bless 
your swate face ! ” or, “ The Lord love ye ! ” is not an 
unusual salutation to a favorite female performer; and 
similar expressions of affectionate delight are called forth 
by the action of the play in which she is concerned. In 
spite of their readiness to be pleased, they are also alarm¬ 
ingly despotic, and their chiding is often merciless. With 
some of Shakspeare’s plays they are so conversant, that, 
if an actor make a mistake in the text, they will correct 
him with a rebuke, and force him to repeat the passage. 

I was an witness to one painful instance of their tyran¬ 
ny over an innocently offending individual. We were 
performing Planche’s comedietta of Faint Heart. The 
actor who personated the old Marquis had rather an 
indistinct voice, caused, I think, by loss of teeth. The 
galleries cried out to him, “ Spake a little louder, will 
ye ? ” His efforts to render his voice audible were not 
sufficiently successful to please them, and they continued 
to shout, at intervals, “ Spake up! ” “ Spake up, old gray- 


PERSECUTION OF AN ACTOR. 


359 


beard! ” The actor became so much confused that he 
could scarcely speak at all. In an undertone I entreated 
him to go on without noticing the interruptions. He en¬ 
deavored to do so, but signally failed. Somebody then 
sang out, “ Take a little wather! ” and another voice 
cried, “ Blow your nose, will ye ? and let’s hear your 
voice ! ” Each of these recommendations was followed 
by a peal of merriment. The persecuted Marquis 
trembled visibly, and the big drops of moisture began 
to roll from his brows. Still he uttered every word of 
his part correctly, though his voice continued thick and 
husky. All at once some individual, who fancied him¬ 
self particularly penetrating, called out, “ Ah, its drunk 
he is! ” “ He’s drunk! ” “ He’s drunk ! ” was echoed on 
every side, and the accusation was accompanied by 
groans and hisses. 

The man was not in the least degree intoxicated or 
excited by any stimulus, as was afterwards proved when 
he was called up before the manager. But shame and 
terror at the imputation upon his sobriety almost took 
from him the power of articulation, and as he led me 
from the stage (which the action of the play demanded) 
he almost reeled. His emotion was so great behind 
the scenes that he turned a deaf ear to all consolation. 
In a few minutes we were obliged to reappear upon the 
stage together. No sooner had he opened his lips than 
he was greeted with the salutations, “ Ah, ye drunken 
loon ! ” “ Aren’t ye ashamed ? ” “ Is that the respect 

ye show to a lady ? ” “ Go home wid ye ! ” &c. The 
unfortunate actor was so thoroughly confounded that 
fright actually gave him the appearance of a man not 
sober. We “ cut the scene ” as much as possible. I 
blended my speeches in a manner that precluded the 


360 


AUTOBIOGRAPHY OP AN ACTRESS. 


necessity of his answering, and he soon had the oppor¬ 
tunity of again making his exit. The exigencies of 
the play required that the Marquis should make his 
appearance once more before its close. His cue was 
spoken in a loud tone, and his entrance announced; but 
no Marquis was forthcoming. Again and again the cue 
was repeated, with sundry glances at the prompter; but 
no Marquis presented himself. What was to be done ? 
There was a dead pause — and a long wait — and the 
sound of voices in remonstrance or entreaty proceeding 
from behind the scenes ; but still no Marquis appeared. 
The audience began to evince their impatience and dis¬ 
pleasure. I caught sight of the stage manager at the 
wing, earnestly gesticulating, and apparently in a great 
state of consternation. As I approached the entrance, 
he whispered to me, “ What on earth shall we do ? The 
poor fellow is so frightened there’s no forcing him on! ” 
A happy thought struck me, and, returning to my posi¬ 
tion on the stage, I looked in the direction where the 
Marquis should have entered, and then at the situation 
he ought to have occupied on the stage, and continued 
my part by saying, “ Marquis, who should he standing 
there,” &c., &c. The audience burst forth into a yell 
of delighted merriment at the device. I continued to 
address the invisible Marquis, making his answers 
(which were supposed to be heard by my ears alone) 
known to them by my interpretation. Every few 
words excited a fresh shout of laughter, and the play 
concluded as brilliantly as though our absent Marquis 
had been present in the most humorous shape. 

On the last night of my engagement a rather amus¬ 
ing scene took place at the stage door of the theatre, 
where the carriage was waiting to take me home. Oil 


SCENE AT THE STAGE DOOR. 


361 


emerging into the street, we found such a crowd assem¬ 
bled that it was with difficulty that the gentlemen who 
escorted me could force a way to the carriage. This 
throng had gathered to witness my departure, not mere¬ 
ly because I had become a favorite in Dublin, but be¬ 
cause I was an American, and America had succored 
Ireland in her hour of need. They grasped my hands 
as I passed, seized my dress, crying out, “ God bless 
you, mee lady ! ” “ The Lord give you prosperity! ” 
“ America ! America’s the blessed land! ” There were 
a number of women in the crowd, some of them with 
infants in their arms. These pressed upon me, crying 
out, “ Look at the baby, mee lady! Take a look at mee 
baby! ” and, “ Let the little girl kiss your hand,” &c. 
I was forced to stand some minutes in the street, com¬ 
plying as well as I could with their requests. They 
hemmed me in so closely, that to reach the carriage 
was an impossibility; and the gentleman whose arm 
I held lifted his cane to strike some of the poor 
creatures. But they drew back at my request, though 
they did not seem inclined to do so before the threat¬ 
ened blows. After I was seated in the carriage, we 
discovered that Mrs. Renshaw had been lost in the 
crowd. She was not recognized as my attendant, and 
consequently got separated from me, to her great dis¬ 
may. She was unmercifully jostled about, and nearly 
trampled under foot. One of the gentlemen who ac¬ 
companied me went in search of her. She was found 
with some difficulty; and even then it was only by pro¬ 
claiming who she was that he could induce the crowd to 
make way and let her pass. We drove off amidst cheers 
and shouts of “ God bless you ! ” “ Long life to you ! ” 
which never ceased while the carriage was in sight. 


362 


AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF AN ACTRESS. 


I received several complimentary letters and other 
tokens of esteem during my stay in Dublin, and I 
formed some delightful acquaintances. I am their 
debtor for numerous hospitalities and courtesies. 

Every morning’s mail brought me a note from the 
invalid in London. Very often I had a second note in 
the evening. Every mail took back a note to him, with 
a supply of newspapers. He had wonderfully revived, 
and wrote in excellent spirits. The accounts of my 
Dublin successes cheered him; and he derived great 
amusement from sketches of the individuals with whom 
I became acquainted and the narration of various inci¬ 
dents. I quote a few passages from his daily letters to 
show the happy and thankful spirit in which they were 
penned:— 

“ Your letter rejoiced my heart and filled me with 
gratitude to Heaven — all seems so prosperous. I, too, 
am unusually well and strong to-day.” 

“ How much you seem to be favored by the press, 
and by having your exertions appreciated and re¬ 
warded ! Heaven surely favors you, and me through 
you.” 

“ I am so comfortable this morning after a good 
night’s sleep, and the cheerful sun shining so brightly in 
the room, and your sweet water lily hanging over me, 
and the portrait of your dear self on the other side of 
the painting of St. John ! ” 

“ I know that it will make you happy to learn that, 
for the first time since you left me, I have been able to 
sit up and read; which I have just now been doing, to 
my infinite delight, for an hour and a half. Providence 
be thanked for all its mercies ! This is more than I 
expected would happen for some weeks.” 


NOTES FROM THE INVALID. 


363 


“Last night was the best yet. I am lying upon 
your sofa, having been placed there by a nephew of 
Mr. M-ll’s, who is very kind, and an excellent sub¬ 

stitute for our good Charlie.” 

“ Davenport brought me a beautiful pot of lilies of 
the valley, in full bloom, this morning. Your letter of 
Sunday was a great source of pleasure and delight to 
me, so that I am as comfortable as can be to-day.” 

“ I look forward to many an hour’s amusement upon 
your return, from the various scenes and events that 
have happened to you. My good doctor is all attention 
to me, and watches me with the greatest care. Mrs. 

E-n is delighted that her sister Mrs. R-suits 

you so well.” 

The contented tone of these letters, and the favorable 
change which my London friends assured me had taken 
place, once more cheated me into the belief that his re¬ 
covery was possible — I even dared to believe probable. 
In his latter letters he entreated me to accept an offer 
which I had received to act a fortnight at Newcastle 
upon Tyne, and then to visit Scotland. I unwillingly 
consented to the former request; and my faithful attend¬ 
ant and I left Dublin with our faces turned towards 
Newcastle, instead of to London, as I earnestly desired. 





CHAPTER XXII. 


Recrossing the Channel. — Night on Deck. — Arrival at Liverpool. 
— Carlisle. — Newcastle upon Tyne. — Mail Disappointments .— 
First Rehearsal. — Its Interruption. — The three Letters. — Sad 
Announcement of the Third. — Mr. Davis. — Sudden Return to 
London. — The Death Bed. — Last Hours. — A Dying Look. — 
The peaceful passing away. — Hospitalities. — A Flower-decked 
Grave. — Floral Offerings of Friends. — Faretvell Letters. — Last 
Wishes. — The last Adieu. — Provincial Tour. — Memoir by Bayle 
Bernard. — Return to America. 


It so chanced that we recrossed the channel in the 
Iron Duke, which three weeks before had conveyed us 
to Kingston. It was a glorious moonlight evening, and 
the boat seemed to plough its way over a sea of molten 
silver. We spent the greater portion of the night on 
deck. A long, wooden bench, which bore some rela¬ 
tionship to that plank which had “ a soft side,” served 
for a couch. An old gentleman who was pacing the 
deck, after passing us once or twice, deprived himself 
of his voluminous woollen cloak, and spread it over me. 
I looked up to remonstrate, but the attempt was useless; 
something in his action seemed to say that he had a 
daughter at home. When I woke from a dreamy slum¬ 
ber I found a couple of overcoats folded carefully over 

my feet, and Mrs. R-was similarly protected. We 

could only divine whence they came by singling out 
certain shivering figures that walked rapidly to and fro 
in the moonlight minus the comfortable outer garment 

( 364 ) 



MAIL DISAPPOINTMENTS. 


365 


Towards morning the cold became so intense that we 
were obliged to take refuge in the close cabin, and en¬ 
counter the seasick consequences. We landed at Liv¬ 
erpool soon after daylight, and in about an hour, during 
which I wrote to London, took the train for Carlisle. 
At four o’clock we reached Carlisle, remained half an 
hour, then proceeded to Newcastle, where we arrived at 
eight on Friday evening. That night we passed at a 
hotel, and early the next morning went in search of 
apartments. To our wonder and gratification, they were 
found almost as readily as those in Dublin, and again 
seemed mysteriously prepared for our reception through 
the agency of the invisible avant courrier before men¬ 
tioned. 

Our first care was to send to the theatre for letters. 
There was one from the invalid at home, dated Thurs¬ 
day morning and Thursday night. It was written in 
the same placid and hopeful strain as all the others 
which had cheered me during my absence. I noticed 
but one difference; the writing was singularly uneven, 
and on some lines there were but two words, as though 
they were traced by one who did not see, but only 
guessed at the space. This had, doubtless, been the 
case. Nothing in the tone of the letter betrayed a 
feebler state of body than usual. 

On Saturday there was no letter. It was the first 
day since I left London that had brought no tones from 
the voice at a distance. Anxious pulses began to beat. 
Their throbbing was painfully quickened when Sunday 
came and went and brought no news. Monday morn¬ 
ing I sent to the post office. The mail had not yet arrived 
— it was very late that day; and we learned that the 
mail due on the day previous had missed altogether. 


366 


AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF AN ACTRESS. 


This accounted for my having no letters. I should 
certainly have two that day. 

With renewed hope I went to my first rehearsal in 
that strange, cold, vast theatre — one of the largest in 
England. Mrs. Renshaw accompanied me. As we 
were passing the box office, on our way behind the 
scenes, the doorkeeper, seeing strange faces, inquired, 
“ Is that Mrs. Mowatt ? ” On receiving my answer, he 
replied, “ I have a great pile of letters for you, ma’am ; 
there are several back mails this morning; ” and placed 
a large package of epistles in my eagerly-extended 
hands. 

Very hurriedly I glanced over them to select the 
well-known writing. It was not there. Again I looked 
through the gathering mists that clouded my sight; 
there were many familiar hands, but one was missing. 
A note, in Mr. Davenport’s writing, attracted my atten¬ 
tion ; that must give me information. I broke it open, 
and turned to the last lines before I had courage to 
glance at the first. They reassured me — the letter 
was dated Friday, and had probably been posted too 
late for that day’s mail. He was paying Mr. Mowatt a 
visit, and wrote in his stead. The latter seemed some¬ 
what weaker than usual, too weak to manage a pen — 
and, besides, he appeared inclined to sleep. 

As I looked up from the letter, I perceived that the 
manager, Mr. Davis, was waiting to address me. Sev¬ 
eral of the company had assembled without my noticing 
them, and were scanning the stranger with inquisitive 
eyes. After exchanging a few words with Mr. Davis, 
whom I had seen but twice before, I inquired if I were 
delaying rehearsal. 

“ It is past the hour,” he replied, “ and every body is 


l’HE THREE LETTERS. 


367 


here; but if you wish to read your letters-” I 

interrupted him with, “ I have read the only important 
one, and will not detain you.” 

lie was leading the way to the stage, and I following. 
The package of letters seemed to burn my hands, and I 
glanced over them again. My eye caught sight of 
another note in Mr. Davenport’s writing, and above the 
address the startling word, “ immediate.” I paused, too 
much alarmed to apologize to my conductor, and hastily 
tore open the letter. It was dated Saturday, and, after 
a gentle preparation, intimated that he feared Mr. Mow- 

att was worse. Mr. D-, with other friends, had 

passed the day at his bedside — he did not appear to 
suffer, but was very feeble. There was a P. S., dated 
4 o’clock, stating that no change had taken place up to 
that hour. The writer’s duties at the theatre, he said, 
would force him to leave at six. 

I was folding the letter as composedly as I could, 
when I noticed a third letter in the same hand; and upon 
that, too, was the terrible word, “ immediate.” I opened 
it — the date was Sunday morning. It was strange that 
I should have opened them accidentally in the order of 
their dates. The first lines were all I read — they had 
told me the worst. The voice of consoling angels whis¬ 
pered, “ God is not the God of the dead, but of the living; 
for all live unto him ! ” 

I hardly know what took place ; but I remember the 
gentle ministerings of the considerate manager and of 
my weeping attendant. As soon as I was able, we 
returned to our lodgings. 

My package of epistles contained numerous letters 
of condolence, and several most pressing invitations 
from intimate friends, offering the hospitalities of their 




368 


AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF AN ACTRESS. 


roofs. I accepted that of the friend who had been the 
most tried — the most devoted to him who was gone — 
a friend whose wife, daughters, son, and nephew, as well 
as himself, had each in turn watched over and cheered 
the departing spirit through its long but gentle struggles 
to be disinthralled. 

Mr. Davis wrote to him, and made all arrangements 
for my return to London. We started at six o’clock 
the next morning. The attentive manager took charge 
of us to the station, provided for our comfort on the 
road, and performed every office that the kindest of 
hearts could dictate. 

We arrived in London late in the evening, after a 
journey the sadness of which I need not describe. For 
the next few weeks I took up my residence with friends 
now doubly endeared. 

From the faithful nurse, Mrs. E-n, I received a 

minute account of the last days and last hours which I 
had not been permitted to witness. 

On Thursday night the then sinking invalid wrote to 
me for the last time. On Friday he was unusually fee¬ 
ble, but composed as ever. Mr. Davenport passed the 
day with him, and he gave various directions with his 
habitual clearness and precision. On Saturday morning 
he seemed slightly worse, and inquired, with considerable 
anxiety, if the postman had not made his rounds. A lit¬ 
tle before ten o’olock the daily missive was placed in 
his hands. It was written at Liverpool during the hour 
that we stopped on our way to Newcastle. He opened 
the note, and held it a long time before his eyes without 
turning the page; he appeared unable to see the words. 

After a while he looked up at Mrs. E-n, who was 

standing beside him, and, holding out the note, said, in 




THE DEATH BED. 


369 


a faint voice, “ Read me Lily’s letter! ” They were 
the last words he ever spoke. 

She took the letter and read. When she had finished 
she looked at him ; his face, she says, had strangely 
changed; it was white as marble, and quite rigid. 
She spoke to him, but he did not answer; she bent her 
head, and felt his breath upon her cheek. Then she 
thought he was sleeping. She sat beside him to watch ; 
but the strange expression, the “ death look in his face,” 
as she termed it, terrified her; and she sent a messenger 

for Mr. Davenport, and another for Mr. M-11, the 

friend whom >1 mentioned above. They came, the lat¬ 
ter with his wife and daughter. Mr. M-11 tried to 

rouse the slumberer, and, fancying that he had partly 
succeeded, took the open letter that lay beside him and 
read it aloud, to attract his attention; but the heavy eyes 
closed again, and gave no sign of intelligence. Mr. 
Davenport brought the doctor; he examined his patient, 
and told the assembled friends that the parting hour was 
at hand. Then they gathered silently and solemnly 
around the bed, and waited for the angels of death to 
free the ransomed spirit. Another friend joined them, 
and sat with the hand of the dying clasped in hers. He 
never spoke and never moved until just before sunset. 
Then suddenly he opened his eyes ; they rested for a 
moment upon the portrait which he had ordered to be 
hung at the foot of his bed, and at the pot of lilies, in full 
bloom, standing beneath it; a smile full of angelic radi¬ 
ance for an instant played upon his lips; his eyes closed 
again, and almost immediately opened, fixed, glazed, 
expressionless ; the mortal casket was untreasured ; he 
was no longer there. 

“ His' spirit passed away sweetly and gently, like the 
24 




370 


AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF AN ACTRESS. 


slumbering of an infant; the change was scarcely per¬ 
ceptible to those around.” So wrote one of the friends 
who witnessed his release, adding, “ I have beheld his 
mortal remains placed in the coffin; and his counte¬ 
nance is so placid, looking as I have seen him often in 
his sleep in latter days.” 

In one of the loveliest corners of Kensall Green 
Cemetery, where bending trees wave their green canopy 
over his grave, and a richly-broidered mantle of flowers 
covers the earth, lie his mortal remains. No flattering 
falsehood is graven upon his tombstone, but a simple 
epitaph, ending with the inspired words which so dis • 
tinctly apply to such as he: “ Blessed is that servant 
whom his Lord, when he cometh, finds watching! ” 

Other hands besides my own have hung wreaths 
upon that tombstone, and laid choice bouquets upon 
that flower-covered grave, in token of remembrance. 
The latest offering was a basket of moss, filled with 
immortelles of various hues; and on the handle was 
woven, in white flowers, the last name that was uttered 
by his lips. 

In a previous chapter I spoke of a trunk which he 
pointed out to me as containing letters. I found three , 
enclosed in each other, and addressed to me. The first 
related entirely to business subjects. It carefully ex¬ 
plained matters which my want of busmess knowl¬ 
edge would have rendered difficult of comprehension. 

The second contained various wishes, with which he 
urged my compliance. One was, that I would resume 
my profession, and resist the entreaties of relatives or 
friends to abandon the stage until certain objects were 
accomplished. Another entreaty was, that, should he 
die during the winter season, I would not leave Eng- 


THE LAST ADIEU. 


371 


land until the ensuing summer, as the change of climate 
would inevitably prove injurious to my health. Other 
wishes referred to the care and education of the little 
Greys, now wholly left under my charge. Other re¬ 
quests are not of a nature to be mentioned here ; every 
one was dictated with a view to promote my welfare. 
If any desire has remained uncomplied with, it is be¬ 
cause the fulfilment was not possible. 

The third letter was a farewell, written with deep 
emotion ; the outpouring of a loving and exalted spirit; 
a letter full of thankfulness, full of tenderness ; grate¬ 
fully reviewing the past, and assuring me of his prepa¬ 
ration for the future. The rocks of doubt, upon which he 
had once been stranded, had melted in the broad and liv¬ 
ing waters of Truth, whose waves dance upon the shores 
of a glorious eternity. That farewell letter belongs, per¬ 
haps, to these memoirs, which are written at his request. 
I have read the "valued document again and again be¬ 
fore I could come to a decision on this point. Although 
I have allowed it to be perused by many friends, I feel 
its language too sacred to be recorded where cold and 
worldly eyes have the right to read. I may be wrong 
in this conclusion; but I yield to an instinct which I 
have not strength to overcome. 

I passed six weeks at the residences of various friends, 
and then prepared to resume my profession. Compli¬ 
ance with Mr. Mowatt’s last wishes compelled me to 
remain in England until summer commenced. London 
was now full of distressing associations; I therefore 
made engagements for a tour in the provinces, to oc¬ 
cupy the months which must pass before I could return 
to my own country, my own family. I travelled 
from city to city, accompanied only by Mrs. Renshaw, 


372 


AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF AN ACTRESS. 


remaining a few weeks in each town, and acting every 
night; if that could be called acting which was but a 
soulless imitation of my former stage imbodiments. I 
could only coldly copy what I had done spontaneously 
in more inspired moments. I lost, for the time being, 
all power of original personation. 

We visited Newcastle, Leeds, Hull, Sheffield, Man¬ 
chester, Liverpool. The gentlemanlike conduct of Mr. 
Davis caused me to return to Newcastle and fulfil the 
engagement which had been so painfully broken in 
upon. I would gladly have avoided that city; but I 
felt bound to secure him against loss. Newcastle was, 
consequently, the first town in which I reappeared. 

In Manchester I acted in the very theatre where I 
had made my first English debut — but under what 
different, circumstances! As I sat alone at the man¬ 
ager’s table, through the long, dreary rehearsals, the in¬ 
cidents of the past four years, many and many a time, 
passed in visionary review before me. 

My intercourse with the Rev. Mr. Smithson and his 
wife was renewed. Highly prized their friendship 
had been years before; but it was at this period an 
inestimable boon. 

During my engagement in Liverpool I was supported 
by Mr. Barry Sullivan, one of the most gifted perform¬ 
ers on the English stage. Armand was produced in 
every city, and always with success. In Liverpool Mr. 
Davenport enacted his original part on my benefit night. 
The managers of the Haymarket Theatre accorded him 
this privilege for one evening only. He arrived in Liv¬ 
erpool — where he is a great favorite — in time for the 
performance, and left the next morning to act in Lon¬ 
don at night. 


MEMOIR BY BAYLE BERNARD. 


373 


It is somewhat strange, that, in spite of the sad events 
related in this and the several previous chapters, I left 
England with the reputation of a comic rather than a 
tragic actress; so little may the public and private his¬ 
tory of an actor be in accordance. Just before my de¬ 
parture, a memoir of me was written by Bayle Bernard, 
author of the Broken Heart, the Passing Cloud, &c., 
which concludes with the following paragraph: — 

“ While Mrs. Mowatt has a tenderness and pathos that render' 
her Imogen and Viola scarcely equalled in our memory, there is such 
an entire adaptation of her whole person, look, and spirit to the • 
blander sphere of comedy , that we cannot but feel it is her true one. 
It is marked by ail enjoyment that shows at once it is most natural 
to her, however her tears and gentleness may charm us to the con¬ 
trary. But her comedy has its distinction — we think it peculiarly 
Shakspearian, owing to that thrill of poetic feeling which winds 
through all its passages. That mixed exposition of the ideal and 
the true, which stamps all Shakspeare’s writings as the profound- 
est insight into man, receives the happiest illustration in the genius 
of Mrs. Mowatt. Sensibility and mirth are ever neighbors to each 
other ; and our fair artist well interprets what our best poet has so 
well divined. In the comedy of modern life she has unquestionable 
merits; but if it impress us the less forcibly, it is on account of 
its lower grade, which limits expression. It is in Beatrice and Rosa¬ 
lind that she must be witnessed to be esteemed; equalled by some 
in art, and surpassed in force by many, she alone has that poetic 
fervor which imparts to them their truth, and makes our laughter 
ever ready to tremble into tears.” 

During my engagement in Liverpool I was joined 

by Mr. S-h, a valued brother-in-law, who had just 

arrived from America. I passed a few weeks in Lon¬ 
don, bidding adieu to cherished friends, and, under my 
brother-in-law’s protection, set sail for America, accom¬ 
panied by Mrs. Renshaw. We embarked on the 9th 
July, 1851, in the steamship Pacific, commanded by 
Captain Nye. 



CHAPTER XXIII. 


Accident on board of the Steamship Pacific. — Midnight Scene in the 
Cabin. — Arrival in New York. — Adventurous Night Journey to 
Ravenswood. — Rousing the Slumberers. — Meetings in the dark. — 
Our second Mother. — The general Home. — Reunion of the ten 
Sisters.—A Christening.—Engagement at Niblo’s Theatre. — Act- 
* ing and its Necessities. — Anecdote of Mr. Macready. — Mademoi¬ 
selle Mars. —Conversation with PlancM, the Dramatist. — His Ad¬ 
vice. —*■ Professor Hows. — Dramatic Studies. — Engagement at 
Boston, Providence , Philadelphia, Baltimore , Cincinnati, and St. 
Louis. — Letter from His Honor the Mayor of St. Louis, J. M. 
Kenneth. — Complimentary Benefit declined. — Proposed Christ¬ 
mas Festivities in Philadelphia. — A Family Gathering. 


Our voyage, of thirteen days’ duration, was not ac¬ 
complished entirely without accident. About two 
o’clock, one morning, a terrible crash suddenly dispelled 
the dreams of every slumberer. The sound was three 
times repeated, and the ship quivered and groaned as 
though her timbers were being rent asunder. Imme¬ 
diately afterwards all motion ceased — she had been 
arrested in her course. Then came the noise of hur¬ 
rying feet and indistinct ejaculations of horror, and a 
general rushing of the ladies into the cabin, and of the 
gentlemen to the deck. Mrs. Renshaw opened our 
state-room door to inquire what had happened. A ter¬ 
rified stewardess answered, as she flew by, “ O, dear! 
I don’t know. But the ladies had better dress — I am 
afraid we are going down ! ” 

Silently and rapidly we made our toilets and joined 

( 374 ) 


MIDNIGHT SCENE. 


375 


the group in the cabin. It was a strange sight that 
crowd of bewildered faces just startled from sleep, and 
stranger the odd toilets, the bonnets hurried on over 
nightcaps, the half-dishevelled hair, the not-to-be-de- 
scribed mingling of night and day costumes. In spite 
of the white terror that spread itself over many a coun¬ 
tenance, every lady present maintained a quiet bearing; 
while some of the braver sex (so it was reported) 
rushing frantically to the deck, attempted to cut loose 
the lifeboats, in the hope of saving themselves. The 
captain was forced to station several of the crew where 
they could prevent this act of madness. 

It was full half an hour before intelligence was 
brought below of the precise nature of the accident. 
During this period the steamer lay perfectly still. We 
then learned that in backing suddenly from a danger¬ 
ous approach to certain rocks, upon which she would 
inevitably have been wrecked, one of the engines had 
been shivered to pieces. Its instantaneous dismember¬ 
ment had occasioned the convulsive quivering of the 
vessel and the thunder-like reports. There was no 
longer any danger. The larger portion of the passen¬ 
gers returned quietly to their berths. Some few could 
not recover from the excitement, and remained watch¬ 
ing. We were amongst the former. After a few 
hours the Pacific proceeded on her course with but one 
engine. We had already made (if I remember rightly) 
two thirds of the voyage. 

On the thirteenth night, at about eleven o’clock, we 
reached New York. It would have been wise, perhaps, 
to have remained on board until daylight; but my 
brother-in-law and I could not make up our minds to 
the delay. We were too impatient to behold the be- 


376 


autobiography of an actress. 


loved ones assembled to greet us beneath our father’s 
roof. How to make the journey to Ravens wood, Long 
Island, was the next question. We had six miles to 
travel over the worst kind of roads. The night was 
dark, but for a few faint stars that now glimmered, now 
disappeared. We could not hope to reach Ravens wood 
until long past midnight, — my father’s household would 
then have retired to rest, — but we could not persuade 
ourselves to postpone the joyfully anticipated meeting 
until morning. A coach was loaded with our baggage, 
and we started. The roads were newly made ; and 
every few moments the carriage sank down into a deep 
rut, or rose sidewise over a high mound of earth. 
After several narrow approaches to an upset, we alighted 
from the carriage, and walked, ankle deep in mud, over 

the worst portions of the road. When Mrs. R- 

and I resumed our seats, my brother-in-law mounted 
the box, and himself took the reins as the only means 
of guarding us from the perils of an overturn. 

It was past one o’clock in the morning when my 
ears were greeted with the glad sound, issuing from the 
coach box, “ Look out, sister! I can just see your fath¬ 
er’s house behind those pine trees.” 

The rumble of our heavily-laden carriage broke 
loudly upon the stillness of the night as we drove up to 
the door. No other sound was audible, and not a light 
visible m the silent house. Those within had evident¬ 
ly given up watching for us, except in their dreams. I 
rang the bell loudly, and my brother-in-law shouted be¬ 
neath the windows. In an instant an answering cry 
of joy echoed from within, and we heard the pattering 
of nude feet, and the sound of a loved voice, that called 
out, “Wake up! wake up ! They have come !” The 



MEETINGS IN THE DARK. 


377 


key turned rapidly in the lock — the door flew open —■ 
clasping arms were about me — and a heart beat strong¬ 
ly against mine — in the dark I could not tell whose ; 
but I knew it was that of a sister. We were both mute 
from joy, so that I could not recognize her from her 
voice. Other arms received me as hers were loosened; 
and i could only say, “ Who is it ? Is it Emmie ? Is it 
May ? Is it you, Jule ? ” My brother-in-law sought for 
his wife in the dark, and accidentally greeted one of the 
sisters in her place, which caused great merriment. By 
some accident there was not a light in the whole house, 
and in the confusion no matches could be found. For¬ 
tunately the travelling satchel which I carried on my 
arm contained a small box of wax tapers used for seal¬ 
ing letters. With these we struck a light, and made 
visible the group of white-robed figures that now con¬ 
ducted me to our father’s chamber. He had been 
roused by the unexpected uproar, and began to divine 
its meaning. There was joy enough in that meeting to 
make amends for all past sorrows. From that hour the 
u shadows, and eclipses, and dark tides ” began to roll 
from my spirit. 

After the first greeting, — the first hurried ques¬ 
tions and answers, — sisters, who had become mothers 
during my absence, lifted rosy slumberers from their 
cribs and trundle beds to exhibit them with fond pride. 
And my father bade me look at the two little sisters 
born after I left — specimens of infantine loveliness 
which it would have been difficult not to admire. 

I have not before mentioned that two years after we 
lost our mother (which sad event took place when I w r as 
sixteen) our father was united to Miss Julia Fairlie, of 
Hew York, daughter of Major James Fairlie, a distin- 


378 


AUTOBIOGRAPHY OP AN ACTRESS. 


guished officer of tlie revolutionary army. Such a 
striking contradiction was given to the old maxim that 
condemns step-mothers in the person of our second 
mother, that her harmonious life ought almost to take 
away the reproach that attaches itself to that much- 
maligned class. The loadstar of her gentleness had 
attracted to itself the affections of all her husband’s 
children — all their hearts 

“ Perforce 

Swayed to her from their orbits as they moved 
And girdled her ” 

with love. She contributed four most sweet additions 
to our already extensive sisterhood. At the period of 
my return, the youngest, our “ last rose of summer,” 
as we nicknamed her, was little more than, a year old; 
the next in age was three years. 

There was very little sleep in my father’s house that 
night; but there was a great deal of what was better 
and more refreshing, even to the wornout travellers. 

Though we used to say that the paternal mansion had 
the India rubber capacity of the paternal heart, expand¬ 
ing to give each new comer a welcome place, my father’s 
house could not quite accommodate all his numerous 
children and the shoots from their branches. One sis¬ 
ter was obliged to sleep at a hotel near. She had not 
heard of our arrival. Early the next morning my 
sisters and I went to see her. Since we parted she had 
worn bridal flowers and clasped an infant to her heart. 
When we approached her lodgings she was just leaving 
the house with her bright-eyed baby in her arms. As 
I ran towards her, in advance of the others, she did not 
recognize me, but started when I spoke, exclaiming, 


THE TEN SISTERS. 


379 


“ Anna! It isn’t possible! I was wondering what 
strange lady the girls had brought with them.” 

I was no longer the pallid, fragile, sickly-looking 
being whom she had last embraced. The healthful 
change wrought by the English climate was like a 
metamoiphosis. 

We now lacked but one sister, Louisa, to make 
our band complete. She came from New York with 
her two Cornelia treasures — riches bestowed since I 
last beheld her. Was it the couleur-de-rose hue of 
excitement and joy through which I gazed that made 
me imagine, when the little flock were grouped together 
in the drawing room, I had never beheld such an assem¬ 
blage of beautiful infant faces ? 

It was five years since the sisters had all been 
gathered from their scattered homes in the general 
home — for all who had reached womanhood had also 
entered wifehood. We sat down at my father’s table, 
ten daughters and two sons — two were at a distance. 
Two of either sex were in the spirit land. The chris¬ 
tening of the little Florence and Virginia, our youngest 
sisters, took place shortly after my arrival. And my 
father, when he walked into the village church at 
Ravenswood, where the ceremony was performed, was 
followed by twenty-two of his own descendants. 

I only left New York for a brief visit to Greenfield 
Hill, to see my young charges, the little Greys. I 
found them fulfilling my hopes and exceeding my 
expectations. 

On the 19th of August, 1851, I commenced my pro¬ 
fessional engagements at Niblo’s Theatre. The audi¬ 
ence at Niblo’s is, in a measure, composed of that portion 
of the community who are lovers of the drama, yet do 


330 


AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF AN ACTRKSS. 


not frequent theatres — I should say theatres where 
certain abuses are countenanced. It is an audience 
distinguished for purity of taste, though not versed in 
conventional criticism. There is no craving after un¬ 
natural excitement — nothing blase about them — but a 
freshness and enthusiasm, and a keen sense of enjoy¬ 
ment, to which it is a delight to minister. The theatre 
itself was built during my absence, and is a very mag¬ 
nificent one. 

The theatre-going public are too familiar with the 
circumstances which attended my debut after my long 
sojourn in a foreign land, for me to dwell upon the 
hearty welcome bestowed by my countrymen, the 
thronged houses with which they honored me through 
the whole of my engagement, and the overflowing bene¬ 
fit wfith which it concluded. 

At this period I fixed a time in my own mind w r hen 
I would retire from the profession. But until that 
epoch arrived, I determined, by close application to the 
study of my art, to win the highest distinction to which 
my abilities, in their full cultivation, would entitle me. 

Acting is not a matter of mere intuition . The 
power of conception comes long, long before the fac¬ 
ulty of executing with thorough success — a success 
which satisfies the true artist himself \ and is not meas¬ 
ured by the amount of applause he wins — applause 
which may be dealt out by judicious or injudicious 
hands — which may oftener be called down by “ a trick 
of the stage” than by a delicately beautiful concep¬ 
tion. 

The young actor who supposes that, alone and un¬ 
guided by the maturer judgment of one who can show 
him to himself by reflection as in a glass, — as “ others 


ACTING AND ITS NECESSITIES. 


381 


see him,” and as no man sees h.s own image, — he can 
arrive at the highest degree of excellence, commits a 
great error. The art of interpreting “ the mighty mas¬ 
ters ” correctly, and imbodying their conceptions forcibly, 
faithfully, and brilliantly, is the study of a life — ever 
progressive, and demanding as devoted application as 
the study of sculpture, painting, music, or any of the 
most difficult arts. 

It is related of Mr. Macready, that, after enacting 
Hamlet hundreds of times, he refused to attend a dinner 
party, composed of the friends whom he most delighted 
to meet, because the role of the Dane required more 
study, new reflections, fresh analysis. The studies of 
Mrs. Siddons never ceased. It is narrated of Made¬ 
moiselle Mars, that when a friend commented upon her 
admirable personation of Juliet at sixty, she replied, 
“ Si favals ma jeunesse,je n'aurais pas mon talent,'’ 
Through studies not relinquished at sixty years of age 
she had attained her dramatic perfection. 

Before I left England, a conversation with Mr. 
Planche, the distinguished playwright, first impressed 
upon my mind the importance, to the dramatic artist, 
of incessant application. He took a friendly interest 
in my successes. His words were, “ You must not think 
that because you have made this London hit, and have 
reached your present position in so wonderfully short a 
time, that you have nothing more to learn. You will 
not abandon your studies ? You are not vain enough 
to suppose that you would not be benefited by reading 
daily with some old actor who has made the stage the 
study of years, and has discovered how difficult it is to 
convey to an audience that which it is easy to conceive 
in the closet ? ” 


382 


AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF AN ACTRESS. 


I answered what I thought; and the answer pleased 
him. He counselled me to read with a celebrated 
English elocutionist, who had once been an actor, to 
compare opinions with him, especially as regarded 
Shakspearian characters, and then to- form my own per¬ 
sonations neither on his nor any model. I forget this 
gentleman’s name. It was one with which I was not 
familiar. I attempted to follow Mr. Planches advice; 
but the elocutionist whom he recommended chanced to 
be seriously ill. Mr. Planche then suggested my read¬ 
ing with Miss Kelly, who had retired from the stage. 
I was on the eve of entering into an engagement with 
this eminent lady when my own indisposition prevented. 

I mentally stored up Mr. Planchd’s remarks, and 
determined to act upon his advice whenever occasion 
offered; for I deeply felt my own responsibilities as an 
artist. I left England, however, without carrying my 
intentions into execution. On my return to America, 
while pondering over the counsels I had received from 
so high a source, I remembered my former friend, Pro¬ 
fessor Hows, of Columbia College. Of his critical 
acumen, his elocutionary powers, his talents for analyz¬ 
ing dramatic creations, there could be no question. He 
had made the imbodiment of language — the uttering 
of words so as to make them express their meaning by 
the very tone used — the study of a long life. His 
first impressions of acting were received from the unap¬ 
proachable Siddons, the finished and classic Kemble, 
the matchless O’Neil, the elder Kean^and the host of 
actors of the old school, their contemporaries, besides 
their whole galaxy of gifted successors. Such a man 
had surely been educated in a school of experiences 
that gave his opinions and judgment high claim to re- 


PROFESSOR HOWS. 


383 


spect. I knew also that lie possessed a peculiar faculty 
of transmitting his knowledge; and this is, of itself, 
an especial talent. 

Before I was half through my engagement at Niblo’s, 
I arranged to read and discuss my* favorite dramatic 
personations with Professor Hows regularly every day. 
I derived equal benefit and delight from this occupation, 
I found my own perceptions quickened by his ; the close 
analysis of poetic creations called unseen beauties to 
light, and brought out harmonious elements that eluded 
more hasty scrutiny. Sometimes we spent three or 
four hours in the morning dissecting a single play. At 
night I tested the correctness of his judgment by the 
effect produced upon the audience. 

Henceforward, whenever I visited New York, even 
sometimes when I was passing through on my way to 
other cities, and could spare but a couple of days, I 
resumed my studies, and found that, for the time thus 
devoted, I was repaid tenfold. 

My second appearance in America was at the Howard 
Athenaeum, in Boston, the same theatre in which I bade 
farewell a few days before I sailed for Europe. The 
engagement was a long and brilliant one. I next acted 
in Providence, Philadelphia, Baltimore, Cincinnati, St. 
Louis. These engagements occupied every night up to 
the 10th of December. 

I had promised to return to Philadelphia by Christ¬ 
mas. My father and all the members of our home 
circle within reach were to assemble beneath the roof 

of our brother-in-law, Mr. M-e. Invitations had 

been issued for a ball, to be given on the 30th; and on 
that occasion my sisters were to enact Gulzara, or the 
Persian Slave, the little drama of Melrose memory, 



384 


AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF AN ACTRESS. 


written in my girlhood. It had been represented during 
my absence at the residence of one of our sisters in 
Brookline, near Boston. I had consented to act as stage 
manager in Philadelphia in “ getting up ” the play, and 
directing the costumes, &c., though I would perform no 
part. The grave realities of my professional life made 
me unwilling to act in private for amusement. 

In St. Louis I was strongly urged to accept a reen¬ 
gagement ; but the impossibility of reaching Philadel¬ 
phia in time, if I extended my stay, compelled me to 
decline. Before my engagement drew to a close I 
received a letter from his honor J. M. Kenneth, mayor 
of the city, requesting, in the name of the citizens of 
St. Louis, that I would remain to receive a compliment¬ 
ary benefit. The flattering terms in which the letter 
was couched rendered the temptation to accept the invi¬ 
tation no inconsiderable one. But the remembrance of 
the family assemblage who awaited my coming in 
Philadelphia, and the Christmas festivities with which 
my absence would interfere, prevented my altering my 
original resolution. The complimentary benefit offered 
by the mayor was, consequently, declined. 


CHAPTER XXTV. 


Waiting of the Steamboat Robert Rogers to take us onboard. — Start¬ 
ing at Midnight. — Sudden Freezing of the Ohio River. — Cutting 
through the Ice. — The Boat frozen in. — A trying Predicament. — 
Conversation with the old Pilot. — The lunatic Sisters. — Unex¬ 
pected Escorts. — Female Inflxience over a Backwoodsman. — Jour¬ 
ney in an Ox Cart. — Arrival at Evansville .— Courtesy of a Bal¬ 
timorean. — Indiana Roads. — White River. — Crossing the par¬ 
tially frozen River on Foot, by Starlight. — Vincennes. — Midnight 

Travelling on Foot through the Snow. — Major R - ’s Joke. — 

Terre Haute. — A Stage selected through Presentiment. — Overturn 
of the other Stage. — Serious Accidents. — An aged Couple thrown 
over a Precipice. — The little Child. — Dayton. — Xenia. — Cleve¬ 
land. — Alliance. — Salem. — Palestine. — Proverbial American 
Gallantry. — Pittsburg. — Christmas Day. — A Christmas Fast. 
— Alleghany Mountains. — Descending inclined Planes. — Out¬ 
skirts of Philadelphia. — Snowbound. — The Sisters. — A joyful 
Meeting. 


The season was the most severely cold that had been 
known for many years. We had great fears of being 
“ snowed up ” somewhere on our way. The journey 
from St. Louis to Philadelphia is often accomplished in 
six or seven days. Any detention on the road would 
interfere with the object of iny rapid travelling — the 
assumption of amateur managerial responsibilities for 
the New Year’s fete. The steamboat Robert Rogers 
was to leave St. Louis on the afternoon of the 10th 
December. A message to the courteous captain delayed 
the departure of the boat until night, when my duties at 
the theatre would be over. I was obliged to appear in 
25 ( 385 > 


386 


AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF AN ACTRESS. 


two plays that evening; and though we hurried off with¬ 
out my even making a complete change of attire, it was 
midnight before we reached the landing. The boat 
started as soon as we came on board, greatly to the 
satisfaction of the impatient passengers. 

I had been wearied out with nightly personations, 
and for two days luxuriated in a delightful rest, im¬ 
prisoned in the narrow little state room, which I never 
left. The companionship of books and pleasant rev¬ 
eries was a refreshment that can only be appreciated 
by those who have themselves undergone an amount of 
physical and mental exertion which ended in complete 
exhaustion. On the third morning I was roused from 
a half-waking dream by Mrs. Renshaw’s sudden excla¬ 
mation of “ Good gracious! The river is one sheet 
of ice!” 

I sprang up in alarm, and looked out. The river 
resembled a huge mirror, upon which some gazer had 
breathed and left a haze over the polished glass. The 
shores, on either side, were banks of snow drifted into 
fantastical shapes. The sunlight reflected on their daz¬ 
zling whiteness almost deprived one of vision. Our 
boat was cutting bravely through the ice, and still pro¬ 
gressed with rapidity. We had just entered the Ohio 
River from the Mississippi. I forsook my state room 
for the wheel house, and passed the rest of that day 
watching the ice as it grew more and more solid, and 
tormenting the pilots with useless questions. They per¬ 
ceived my restless anxiety, and gave me the comforting 
assurance that there would soon come a thaw; that we 
had a good boat, and ice must be pretty deep that we 
could not make our way through, &c. 

The next morning, when I woke, the boat was moving 


FREEZING OF THE OHIO RIVER. 


387 


very slowly, with a pushing, jerking, striking-out mo¬ 
tion, as though step by step the steam king were bat¬ 
tling every inch of the way with the frost king, and 
had grown weary in the fight. I went to the wheel 
house again. The old pilot shook his head at my first 
question, and I stood beside him silently watching — 
watching in almost breathless anxiety, as the ice grew 
thicker and thicker, and more and more closely closed 
around us. The boat made her way slower and slower, 
and suddenly stopped. We were frozen in ! 

“ 0, what shall we do ? ” I asked of the discouraged 
old man, as he let go of the helm. “ How long may we 
have to stay here ? ” 

“ Well, I’m right sorry for you, I am; but I’m thinking 
the boat may just have to lie here perhaps three weeks, 
perhaps a month — there’s no telling; the ice is many 
a good foot deep, or we’d have made some headway 
through it.” 

“ Won’t it perhaps thaw soon ? ” 

“Well, it don’t look inclined.” 

“What’s that place on the shore where I see a 
bouse ? ” 

“That’s a little spot they call West Franklin.” 

“ Are there no stages that start from there ? ” 

“ Stages ! I don’t believe they’ve got any thing better 
than a cart in the whole place. This is Indiana State. 
Evansville is the nearest town from which stages start. 
But stages would be no good to the like of you. You 
couldn’t travel over these backwoods roads in stages — 
and at this time of the year ! Why, no woman could 
do it, unless it was an Indian squaw. The stages are 
sure of being spilled every few miles — dead certain! 
You don’t know what’s to be gone through; never think 


388 


AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF AN ACTRFSS. 


of trusting yourself in them stages, if you know when 
you are well off.” 

“ But. will nobody leave the boat for weeks to come ? ” 

u Some of the men will, in course. If they have to 
walk for it, they’ll get on.” 

Then I’ll “get on ” too, I thought to myself, and 
returned to my state room to consult with my faithful 
attendant. She had never seen a frozen river, and I 
found her gazing in bewildered admiration at the glit¬ 
tering chains of ice that encircled us. There was such 
a fascination in the sight that she could hardly lament 
over our trying predicament. 

What was to be done ? We were not acquainted 
with a single passenger on board. The captain was in a 
state approaching despair at the heavy losses he would 
sustain. He gave us the sympathy which he needed 
himself, but had no advice to offer, except that we should 
remain quietly on board until “ there came a thaw.” 

Among the passengers there were two young lunatic 
sisters. One of them talked, shrieked, or sang from 
morning until night, and almost infected those around 
her with frenzy. They were under the care of a 
keeper, who was taking them to an asylum. Remain 
on board with these sounds in our ears — this mournful 
sight daily before our eyes for weeks! The prospect 
seemed unendurable. Besides, what would the expect¬ 
ant ones in Philadelphia do without their stage director 
and costumer ? The play of Hamlet with the part of 
Hamlet omitted; for the ball and private performance 
were principally in honor of my return to America. 
These would have to go on while we were gazing at our 
ice manacles in our frozen prison on the Ohio. 

Another boat had been frozen in near ours. From 


UNEXPECTED ESCORTS. 


389 


that boat came two gentlemen, who sent their cards to 

me. The elder, Major R-—, of Philadelphia, had 

been presented some six years before. I had seen him 
but once* He was the father of a family. The younger, 

Mr. N-, of New York, was acquainted with one of 

my sisters. They seemed to me Heaven-sent for our 
rescue and protection. They offered to serve us in any 
way in their power. I informed them of my determina¬ 
tion to reach Philadelphia by a certain day, if it was 
possible ; almost if it was impossible. Finding that they 
could not dissuade me from the seemingly mad attempt, 
they proposed to become our escorts. Their offer was 
accepted with undisguised pleasure. 

“ If I can get your baggage taken by some cart to the 
next town, can you walk ? ” asked Mr. N——. 

I promptly answered in the affirmative. 

“ Can you walk eight miles ? ” 

“ Eight miles ! Yes, to be sure.” 

I would have walked fifty, or have undertaken to do 
so, to have been put in the way of completing my jour¬ 
ney in the desired time. Fortunately I was in vigorous 
health, and not eagily daunted by the prospect of ex¬ 
posure and fatigue. 

Several gentlemen were just going on shore to secure 
any conveyance that could be found. It was very prob¬ 
able that there was not more than one in the place. As 
they landed from the ice, they all started to run; the 
first one that reached the house might possibly be the 

only one who would be accommodated. Mr. N- 

and another gentleman outstripped the others, and kept 
side by side; but the former outwitted his nimble-footed 
companion, by shouting out, as they approached the 




390 


AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF AN ACTRESS. 


dwelling and perceived its owner, “ I engage whatever 
conveyance you have got.” 

Mr. N-brought us word that the “ only convey¬ 

ance ” was an ox cart! It could carry us and our 
baggage also; but the man was a true westerner, an 
independent sort of individual, and could not be per¬ 
suaded to start that day. He declared that he could 
not get ready before the morrow. 

A day’s delay was a serious circumstance in such a 
journey as we were undertaking. 

“Will you come with me and use your influence?” 
said Mr. N-. 

I consented without hesitation. We walked through 
the uncleared underbrush and through deep snow to the 
man’s log cabin. His sickly-looking wife sat by the fire, 
busied with the care of three pretty children. I knew 
the surest avenue (the swift railroad route) to the heart 
of the “ head of a family,” and talked to the wife and the 
little ones, and made them comprehend that a certain 
ox cart must be got ready that very day. The owner 
of the log house came in, and before he went out I had 
been successful in my mission, and the cart was prom¬ 
ised. It would be ready in an hour, he said; and it 
should have a fine pair of strong, lively horses, instead 
of oxen. We might start at once. 

The backwoodsman kept his word. At the appointed 
time the ox cart stood ready on the steep, snow-covered 
bank of the river. The trunks were tossed (that is the 
only word to use) in. It was a piercingly cold day, and 
we obtained the captain’s permission to take the cotton¬ 
wool “ comforters ” from our berths for additional pro¬ 
tection. There were no seats. I curled myself up on 




JOURNEY IN AN OX CART. 


391 


the floor of the cart; some followed my example ; some 
sat upon the trunks. Three of the party had just nes¬ 
tled in their places when the horses took fright and 
started off. For a minute or two there was a great 
chance of our being dashed to pieces over the abrupt 
declivity that formed the river side of the road. Majoi 

R-caught the horses’ heads, and they were stopped 

and quieted. The owner of the wagon then got in, the 
major followed, and we drove off, a merry party; for we 
were released from icy captivity, and our faces were 
turned towards home. The cold was so intense that my 
breath froze upon the handkerchief which I held to my 
lips, and rendered it perfectly stiff. By and by we spied 
out a barn, and stopped to supply our ox cart with hay 
for softer seats. Every once in a while, where the road 
was very uneven, one of the piled-up trunks would be 
precipitated forward and strike us on the shoulders. 
The major, in his military capacity, had a constant 
engagement with our baggage, to protect us against the 
assaults of these enemies. Mrs. Renshaw was so vio¬ 
lently struck in the forehead and eye that she bore a 
black remembrancer of the “ dangers she had passed ” 
for many weeks. 

We reached Evansville (which proved to be twelve 
miles from West Franklin instead of eight) in the 
evening. Stages were to start the next morning for 
Vincennes; but every place was taken. Here was an¬ 
other difficulty, and it seemed an insuperable one, inas¬ 
much as any person who would venture on so perilous 
a journey must have as strong reasons for making his 

way onward as we had. Mr. C-d, of Baltimore, 

who had engaged three places, (I never knew a Balti¬ 
morean yet who was not a pattern of courtesy,) hearing 




392 


AUTOBIOGRAPHY OP AN ACTRESS. 


of our disappointment, instantly resigned them to us, 
and hunted out and engaged a small open wagon, in 
which he proposed to drive the major. 

Our gigantic baggage occasioned the next difficulty. 
No sum of money that we could offer — and we did 
offer some very extravagant amount— could induce the 
drivers to take it all upon the stage coach. We had to 
select out the trunks that were indispensable, and left 
the rest — not to see them again for months. 

We started at daylight in the morning — such a bitter, 
eold morning ! — for Vincennes. The roads were so 
rough that they seemed to be composed of huge logs 
placed a couple of feet apart; and our mode of progres¬ 
sion was a sudden rising up of the stage, pitching every 
one backward; then a sudden ducking down of the 
wheels, throwing the passengers forwards, after having 
sent them up until many a head made the acquaintance 
of the roof of the vehicle. Then the coach would sway 
from side to side, until it appeared impossible that it 
should not upset, unless it had the faculty of maintain¬ 
ing its equilibrium belonging to an acrobat. Then it 
would drop down into a deep rut and be fastened there 
for some minutes. After much fierce struggling of the 
horses it jolted out again, tossing about every thing 
and every body inside as though we had been a set of 
jackstraws in a child’s hand. 

We reached White River just as the sun was going 
down and the stars were stealing out in the sky. What 
an imposing and solemnly beautiful sight that ice-clad 
river presented ! You might have fancied the colossal 
trees that lined the banks were groups of forest giants, 
and the branches outspread skeleton arms covered with 
snow drapery, and the crystalline pendants fingers. 


CROSSING- A FROZEN RIVER BY STARLIGHT. 393 


They seemed to be keeping a deathwatch over the 
white-shrouded earth — which wore a glassy, corpse-like 
smile, suiting the face of Nature on her bier. It was an 
interlunar period. The stars looked down from their 
azure thrones through a tissue of silver mist that spread 
itself over the heavens. Not a sound broke the deep 
silence, and we all stood gazing with hushed voices. I 
would have taken our perilous journey — thus far—• 
merely to have beheld that awe-inspiring, winter picture. 

A steamboat had sunk in that river a few days be¬ 
fore. It was now thickly frozen over — the ferry 
boat immovable in the ice — the ferryman ill. There 
was no house on that side of the stream — no shelter 
of any kind. To cross the ice on foot, while the gentle¬ 
men carried over our baggage, was the only alternative. 
In the centre of the river ran a line of unfrozen water. 
That was dangerous. It could only be avoided by 
walking some distance on the edge of the frozen stream, 
until we came to a narrow bridge of ice, through that 
centre current, firm enough to bear us. Every now 
and then there was a suspicious, crackling sound beneath 
our feet, as though the ice were suddenly giving way; 
and we stepped lightly and cautiously, and at times 
tremblingly, when that warning noise fell on our ears. 
But the strange beauty of the scene almost beguiled us 
of terror. 

There were stages waiting for us on the other side, 
and we reached Vincennes at eleven o’clock. What a 
delicious sleep I had that night! But it was of short 
duration — for we had to be up and dressed by daylight. 
We were packed closely in the stage coaches again,— 
so closely that almost all limbs were cramped immova¬ 
bly,— and started for Terre Haute. The roads wero 


394 , AUTOBIOGRAPHY OP AN ACTRESS. 

worse than ever, and we made up our minds to the 
necessity of encountering an upset. Towards evening 
one of the gentlemen informed us that our driver, “ while 
watering his horses’ mouths,” had been sympathetically 
seized with a sudden thirst, and, in consequence, could 
not now be trusted in the box without a companion. 
Our situation became more perilous than ever. The 
road was but just visible in the starlight. About mid¬ 
night the stage suddenly sank into a deep gully. The 
gentlemen were all obliged to descend and assist in 
restoring its position, by means of rails taken from the 
nearest fence. With great difficulty the lumbering con¬ 
veyance was once more elevated. 

Major R-made a good joke on the occasion. He 

had been in the habit of writing articles on the theatre — 
its uses, abuses, &c.; and turning to me, he remarked, 
“ I have been trying for years past to elevate the stage ; 
and I have just succeeded, with you upon it! ” 

A little farther on the road grew so dangerous that 
to remain inside of the coach would have been fool¬ 
hardy. We all alighted and walked through the snow, 
sometimes ankle-deep, sometimes knee-deep, for a long 
distance. I was wrapped in an odd variety of protect¬ 
ing garments — shawl, cloak, coat, blanket; but they 
were not proof against the “ icy fang and churlish 
chiding of the winter’s wind,” for I felt as if suddenly 
deprived of nose and ears, and the air seemed to 
turn to thin ice between my lips — yet we trudged 
merrily onward. 

We reached Terre Haute at four in the morning, 
and started at six for Indianapolis, arriving late in the 
evening without accident. 

At daylight we were to start for Xenia. Two stages 



STAGE-COACH ACCIDENT. 


395 


were preparing to leave at the same time. I was stand¬ 
ing at the door when the drivers commenced shouldering 
the baggage. Yielding to an impulse which I did not 
comprehend, and which appeared to me simply a whim, 
I said to one of the men, “ Put my baggage upon that 
coach ; I am going in that; ” pointing out the second 
coach. 

There was not the slightest obvious difference in the 
coaches; yet I strongly preferred one to the other. 

“ Why not go in the first coach ? ” asked one of our 
escorts, remonstratingly ; “ we shall get on faster.” 

“1 don’t know why — I fancy this one,” was my 
reasonless answer. I could give no better.' 

The first stage kept on a few paces ahead of us for 
some hours. We were traversing a very narrow road, 
and came to a place where on one side of the high 
bank was a frozen river, and on the other side a preci¬ 
pice of thirty feet. An aged man was driving his wife 
in a cart from the opposite direction. The driver of 
the first coach, in making a careless and violent attempt 
to pass him hastily, brought the two conveyances in col¬ 
lision. The cart with the venerable couple was thrown 
off the precipice — the stage upset over the bank into 
the frozen river! 

Our coach immediately stopped, and the passengers 
ran to the assistance of the unfortunates. It was a 
fearful sight to behold that poor old man lifted up, ap¬ 
parently in a dying state. His wife, too, was much 
injured, if we might judge from her groans and lamen¬ 
tations as she was carried up the bank. The driver of 
the coach had his skull fractured, and was borne to a 
cottage near. Happily, there were no women in the 


396 


AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF AN ACTRESS. 


coach, — indeed, we met none in our whole journey, — 
but there was a little girl about three years old. She 
had not received even a bruise. The hardest natures 
present involuntarily softened, when, as her frightened 
father caught her up, she looked with sweet serenity in 
his face, and said, “ Father, I’m not hurt! ” 

He was a widower; and, as he clasped her tightly 
in his arms, he murmured, “ Thank Heaven! for I 
couldn’t have helped committing murder if you had 
been! ” 

It seemed strange that, without a conscious reason, I 
had refused to enter the very coach that met with this 
accident. 

None of the passengers were seriously injured. 
They mounted upon our already heavily-laden vehicle; 
and, travelling at a snail’s pace, we reached Dayton at 
night. Soon after sunrise we started for Xenia, and 
from thence for Cleveland, where we arrived that night. 
In the morning we exchanged our jolting stage coaches 
for the railway cars, which took us to Alliance by two 
o’clock. But at Salem we had to encounter the perils 
of staging again, as the only means of progression. 
We reached Palestine late at night, and with great 
difficulty found shelter. We were indebted for it at 
last to that prompt gallantry, characteristic of Ameri¬ 
cans, which induced gentlemen already provided with 
lodgings to surrender them for our accommodation. 
Every place of refuge was thronged with travellers, 
who, like ourselves, had been snowbound, on rivers or 
railroads. 

The next day we left Palestine by railroad, and reached 
Pittsburg at night. The morning after was Christmas. 


A CHRISTMAS FAST. 


397 


We started from Pittsburg at half past six, — again by- 
railroad, — but at half past seven we had once more to 
resort to stage coaches. There was many a bountiful 
Christmas dinner eaten that day in our land of abun¬ 
dance ; but our party, after an early and hurried break¬ 
fast, tasted no food again until eleven o’clock at night — 
a Christmas fast instead of a Christmas feast! Often, 
on our journey, we had partaken of but one rapid meal 
during the day. Sometimes we contented ourselves 
with frozen cheese, and biscuits that were not frozen 
only because they could not freeze. These were the 
nearest approaches to dainties that could be purchased 
on the road. They were palatable enough—for nour¬ 
ishment, like all things else, has its fictitious value given 
by circumstances. The sharp air and the long journey 
imparted to our frozen cheese and stony biscuits a 
delicious relish. 

At four o’clock we again entered upon the railroad, 
and made the descent of the nine (I think there are 
nine) inclined planes, which perilous feat was not ac¬ 
complished until eleven at night. The sun was setting 
gloriously as we started, and rendered those Alleghany 
Mountains, in their glittering snow garments, almost as 
grandly beautiful as in their lovely spring or gorgeous 
auturns vesture. I had seen them in all three attires. 

We travelled all Christmas night and all the next 
day, and about nine o’clock on the evening of the 26t.h 
reached the outskirts of Philadelphia, just entered the 
suburbs, and then were stopped! The train could not 
approach the station; embankments of snow had rendered 
the roads thoroughly impassable. 

During our journey of seventeen days I had con¬ 
stantly telegraphed my brother-in-law of the progress 


398 


AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF AN ACTRESS. 


we made over the icebound roads, that the anxious 
hearts assembled beneath his roof might be relieved. 
The despatches took nearly as long as we did on their 
route, and our coming in time for the fete was almost 
despaired of. 

We waited as long in the immovable train as my im¬ 
patient spirit could endure. The cars had stopped not 
more than a mile from my brother-in-law’s house, which 
was situated in the upper part of the city. No sort of 
conveyance could be procured. I proposed that we 
should leave the train and walk. We bade adieu to the 
elder of our escorts, who had become quite ill from fa¬ 
tigue, and, under the protection of the younger, we once 
more made our way through the snow on foot. The 
sheets of ice that covered the streets made pedestrianism 
tolerably dangerous ; but at Vincennes we had purchased 
thick woollen stockings (such as are used by carmen, 
&c.) and drawn them over our shoes and overshoes, 
and they prevented our slipping. 

At last the hospitable mansion, which had shone in 
my mind like a far-off beacon through the long journey, 
and been seen in every dream that visited my rare 
slumbers, was in sight! A very gentle ring startled 
none of the household within. I made a sign of silence 
to the astonished servant who answered the sutfimons, 
and opened the door of the drawing room myself. The 
sisters were sitting around a table at the farther end of 
the large, brilliantly illuminated apartment. My father 
and brothers-in-law had gone to the station in hope of 
our arrival. The group of heads, bended over flying 
needles, were not lifted at the quiet opening of the door; 
but at the joyful “ Huzza! huzza ! ” to which I gave 
utterance, what a sudden turning towards us was there 


JOYFUL MEETING. 


399 


of glad faces — what springing from seats — what rush- 
ings to the door where we stood — what floods of 
questions — what greetings of delight! 

It wanted but three days of the ball. Invitations 
had been issued some time previous, and enclosed with¬ 
in these was the programme of 

“ GULZAHA, 

OR 

THE PERSIAN SLAVE, 

WRITTEN FOR PRIVATE REPRESENTATION, 

BY 

ANNA CORA MOWATT. 

TO BE ENACTED BY HER SISTERS.” 

What preparations had yet to be made ! — prepara¬ 
tions to which the exhausted travellers just arrived 
were indispensable. 


CHAPTER XXV. 


Retrospection. — The New Year's Fete in Philadelphia. — Gulzara, 
or the Persian Slave. — Its first Production at Melrose, and the 
present Representation. — My Father. — The acting of five Sis¬ 
ters. — Changes. — Dr. M - IVs critical Opinion of Gxilzara's 

amateur Representative. — Richmond. — Snowbound again. — A 
Repetition of Western Experiences. — Baltimore. — Providence. — 
Boston .— Long Engagement. —Attack of Bronchitis. — Excursion 
on Horseback. —A serious Accident. —Attending Circumstances. — 
Untimely telegraphic Despatches. — Illness. — Letter from the May¬ 
or and various distinguished Citizens. — Complimentary Benefit. — 
The Welcome. — Irrepressible Emotion. — Parthenia. — Wreath 
of natural Flowers woven on the Stage. — Reengagement in Bos¬ 
ton, Cincinnati, and Louisville. — Funeral of Henry Clay. — Em¬ 
blematical funeral Decorations. — Opening of the Metropolitan 
Theatre in Buffalo. — Inaugural Address. —An Architect's Attack 
of Stage Fright. — The Prevalence of Bronchitis amongst Actors 
ludicrously exhibited at Rehearsal. — Broadway Theatre. — A 
painful Engagement. — Baltimore. — Presentation of a Fawn. — 
A Star of Flowers. — Return to Boston. — Southern Tour. — 
Washington. — Richmond. — Mobile. — New Orleans. — Produc¬ 
tion of Fashion in New Orleans. — III Effects of the Climate. 


What sad mutations, what strange events, had 
thrown their deep shadows over an existence which 
reflected nothing but sunshine, when I wrote that little 
drama in Paris, for the gratification of my own tastes 
— when my young sisters and I performed it at Melrose 
for the amusement of our friends! Well was it that no 
prophetic visions presaged the future that awaited me ! 
And yet, to that future career, the production and per¬ 
formance of this very play formed a first, easy step of 

( 400 ) 


AMATEUR PERFORMANCE. 


401 


preparation, unknown, unconscious, yet distinctly ordered 
preparation! 

The stage appointments of Gulzara, as represented 
in Philadelphia, at the mansion of my brother-in-law, 
were even more unique than ours had been at Melrose. 
Our scenery for the Melrose representation had been 
painted in Paris ; and yet it could scarcely compare, in 
tasteful execution, with the counterfeit presentment of 
groves and gardens which came from the hands of the 
scenic artist of the Chestnut Street Theatre, whom my 
brother-in-law employed. The scenes were delineated 
with a finished delicacy which challenged the most 
minute inspection. On the drop curtain was admirably 
depicted a romantic view of scenery on the Rhine. The 
stage accessories were richer than they could have been 
in any public theatre ; the costuming w r as strictly correct, 
and as graceful as it could well be fashioned. 

Again our father sat in the centre of the assembled 
guests to witness the performance of his children. In 
him, how little outward change was wrought by the 
years that had flitted lightly over his head since he first 
smiled approval upon the little drama at Melrose! 
With the few added snows upon his brow, no vigor had 
been taken away. His winter, in its evergreen blossom- * 
ing, was too kindly for frost, and youth had left behind 
the radiant halo of a fresh and buoyant spirit. By his 
side sat, as before, our gentle second mother, whose 
children were now most valuable additions to our do¬ 
mestic dramatic corps. 

Again the curtain rose upon Zulieka, and Fatima 
reclining at her feet. The Zulieka was the same as on 
the play’s first representation; but the sister May, then 
just budding into girlhood, was now a wife and mother. 

26 


402 


AUTOBIOGRAPHY OP AN ACTRESS. 


In her acting there was more intensity and reality than 
formerly ; but it had lost none of its unaffected sim¬ 
plicity. Fatima was most sweetly personated by a dear 
friend. 

Gulzara, which I had enacted in other days, was 
more powerfully imbodied by my sister Julia, then our 
little Amurath. The precocious child, grown to woman¬ 
hood, presented one of the rare instances where the 
promise of a forward spring was fulfilled. Just as she 
passed the verge of childhood we had decked her as a 
bride, and she was now a youthful wife and mother. 

The boy Amurath of to-night was our young sister 
Emily, the eldest of the four sisters given us by our 
second mother. Her Oriental countenance, which 
Heaven formed amongst those things that need no 
praising, was even more suited to the Turkish boy than 
little Julia’s had been. Emily was Julia’s pupil, as 
Julia had been mine. The new Amurath acted with a 
naturalness and spirit which at least approached the 
personation of her tutor. 

The simple part of Katinka was rendered by our 
little sister Grace (Emily’s junior by two years) in a 
manner which her own name could best express. 

Our hostess, my sister Emma, was the dark-eyed 
Ayesha, and did her best to look excessively malignant 
and wicked in personating the indispensable villain of 
the plot — an element not easily omitted in the drama, 
where the distinctions of light and shade are as essential 
as in a picture. But our Ayesha created a deeper 
impression through her penitence than by her revenge¬ 
ful triumphs. Her tears drew tears more readily than 
her evidently fictitious anger excited sympathy. 

Could I assume the tone of the author-critic in re - 


gulzara’s amateur representative. 403 


viewing the performances of my sisters, and forget for 
the moment (what I should be most unwilling often to 
forget) the tie between us, I could give a more adequate 
description of their personations. Our very kinship 
throws a restraint over my commendation of what all 
commended, and prevents my dwelling upon gifts of 
mind and person which justice would force me to paint 
in glowing colors had the performers of Gulzara been 
strangers. But this I may say, that, as I watched their 
imbodiment of my youthful and imperfect creations, the 
discomforts and perils of the seventeen days’ journey 
over frozen rivers and mountains of snow faded into 
insignificance. 

During the performance, I overheard Dr. M-11, 

of Philadelphia, a critic of indisputable taste, whisper 

to a friend, “ If Mrs. S-(my sister Julia) were on 

the stage, Mrs. Mowatt would have to look out for her 
laurels.” 

Proud as I felt of my sister’s talents, I could not 
repress a half shudder and a mental exclamation of 
thankfulness that the happy circumstances by which 
she was surrounded rendered no event more unlikely 
than a summons for her to “ translate the stubbornness 
of fortune ” to such a use. “ Heaven shield her from 
the weariness and trials of the professional actress, and 
never let stage dust fall upon her young head, her 
fresh nature ! ” was my fervent ejaculation. And I say 
this, though no one reveres the profession more than I 
do, or entertains stronger convictions that the vocation 
of the actor may be made to command respect — may 
be rendered honorable in the persons of the humblest 
as of the highest members of the profession. 

The representation of Gulzara was succeeded by a 



404 


AUTOBIOGRAPHY OP AN ACTRESS. 


ball; and the occasion was one which many lips have 
declared would not easily be forgotten. 

Soon after the New Year’s fete the sisters again dis¬ 
persed, the others returned to their homes, and I 
resumed my professional duties. 

My first engagement this year was at Richmond, 
Virginia. The ill effects of our hazardous western 
journey, with its fatigues and manifold exposures to 
cold, now rendered themselves apparent. I almost 
entirely lost the use of my voice. But the engagement 
was an eminently prosperous one; and I yielded to the 
entreaties of the managers, who begged that I would 
not allow my increasing hoarseness to cause an inter¬ 
ruption. Thus was sown the seed of future bronchitis. 

In Richmond we were again “ snowed up ” — the 
roads impassable — the rivers frozen. After a week’? 
detention we braved a repetition of our western experi¬ 
ences, and made the journey to Baltimore, partly in 
stage coaches, and partly in open sleighs. On this oc¬ 
casion, however, we were accompanied by a young 
nephew, who, having just arrived at the age of transition 
between youth and manhood, when the spirit of chivalry 
is newly enkindled in the breast, proved the most ener¬ 
getic and efficient of escorts. 

I had promised to revisit Boston and fulfil a long 
engagement, commencing early in February. It was a 
city to which I always gladly returned. On my way 
there I acted a week in Baltimore, and another in 
Providence. In Boston I performed for four successive 
weeks, in spite of the most painful hoarseness. It was 
a sad annoyance to find all high notes suddenly cut off, 
and to be forced to use sepulchral tones even in light 
comedy — imparting to Rosalind and Beatrice raven- 


ACCIDENT ON HORSEBACK. 


405 


like intonations not particularly hilarious. Though, to 
be sure, Rosalind, in her pedestrian journey to the forest 
of Arden, might have had her vocal chords injured by 
inclement weather; and Beatrice, eavesdropping in the 
bower, might have had her lungs affected at the same 
moment as her heart. I unwisely disregarded the per¬ 
suasions of my physician, Dr. C-e, who recom¬ 

mended perfect rest. 

I had engaged to appear in New York the beginning 
of April, and only intended to allow my voice a couple 
of weeks of repose. 

One afternoon, in the middle of March, I proposed to 
my sister May that we should visit Brookline on horse¬ 
back. We w<ere both exceedingly fond of equestrian 
exercise, and had not rode together since the bright 
days at Melrose, when “ Silk ” and u Queen Mab ” used 
to bear us over the level roads. She consented; but 

my artist brother-in-law, Mr. T-n, at whose house I 

was residing, chanced to be too unwell to accompany us. 
We were attended by the master of the stables from 
which our carriages were usually supplied. The horses 
we rode belonged to a riding school. A heavy snow, 
just melting, made the roads rather slippery. Neverthe¬ 
less, we enjoyed an invigoratingly delightful gallop to 
Brookline, paid a short visit to the sister who lived 
there, and were returning home in exuberant spirits. 
Passing up Tremont Road, just as we reached Boylston 
Street, the horses made a forcible attempt to turn the 
corner — the street led to their stable. My horse had 
shied several times on the road, and evinced a tolerably 
unruly spirit. All three horses now began to prance 
and grow unmanageable. We could not force them on. 
Suddenly my horse plunged and reared. We were just 




406 


AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF AN ACTRESS. 


opposite the Winthrop House, and a crowd had by this 
time assembled. Nobody interfered, as I appeared to 
be self-possessed, and capable of managing the fractious 
pony. He reared again and again, — the third time I 
could feel his feet sliding in the slippery mud, — he lost 
his equilibrium, and fell backwards directly upon me. 
I remember the crushing sensation, the lightning-like 
thought, “ I am killed! ” and nothing after that until I 
found myself lying in a parlor, a dense crowd of faxies 
bending over me, and around me a confusion of voices, 
and of feet running to and fro. I was just wondering 
whether I was in this world or in a better, when one 
pale, terrified face, pressed closer than the others, dis¬ 
pelled my doubts: it was my sister’s. I was incapable of 
moving or of speaking except with great difficulty ; but 
I had sufficient presence of mind to say, “ Send for Dr. 
C-e.” He was my physician, and a valued friend. 

It was somewhat singular that two physicians, Drs. 

B-w and T-d, chanced to be driving by at the 

moment the accident occurred, and witnessed the double 
fall. They immediately proffered their aid. 

My brother-in-law was quickly apprised of the mishap, 
with the supplementary information that I was probably 
killed. The news reporters deprived me of life in the 
most unceremonious manner. That very evening tele¬ 
graphic despatches flew over the country, some announ¬ 
cing that I was dangerously injured, some that I had 
departed this life. It was through these unexpected 
channels that the news reached the ears of my father 
and sisters. 

It seemed marvellous — so say the many who beheld 
the accident — that I was not instantly deprived of 
earthly existence. But I was only severely crushed, 





LETTER FROM BOSTON FRIENDS. 


407 


and received a more troublesome than dangerous injury 
in the left side — one which Touchstone objects to 
regarding as “ legitimate sport for ladies.” * I, speaking 
from, experience, heartily agree with him. 

I retained perfect consciousness when I was carried 
through the streets upon a sofa, beside which walked 
the two physicians and my brother-in-law. I could 
hear the trampling feet of the crowd which every mo¬ 
ment swelled in number, and I distinguished the con¬ 
stant query of new comers, demanding, “ Is she killed ? ” 
“Is she quite dead?” and the answers, sometimes du¬ 
bious, sometimes inclining to the affirmative. Once or 
twice I experienced a strong inclination to contradict 
my own departure from the body. 

Dr. C-e soon arrived, and I was attended by him 

and Dr. T-d, For six weeks I was confined to my 

room; but in eight I had almost entirely recovered. 

My Boston friends addressed me the following letter, 
headed by his honor the mayor of the city : — 

TO MRS. ANNA CORA MO WATT. 

Boston, May 13, 1852. 

Madam : The undersigned, your friends, and friends 
of the drama, are desirous of offering to you a public 
expression of your services and your worth in the 
sphere of dramatic art. To be *at once a writer of 
successful plays and a popular actress is to enjoy a dis¬ 
tinction which few can reach. But this is not all that 

* Touchstone. But what is the sport, monsieur, that the ladies 
have lost ? 

Monsieur Le Beau. Why, this that I speak of. 

Touchstone. Thus men may grow wiser every day; it is the first 
time that I ever heard breaking of ribs was sport for ladies. — As 
You Like It. 




408 


AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF AN ACTRESS. 


can be said of you. You have not bought these honors 
with the price of better things. You have moved with 
simple dignity along the slippery paths of praise and 
success. When we have seen you imbodying your 
own conceptions of tenderness and truth, we have felt 
that the charm of your performance flowed from the 
fact that your words and your voice were but imperfect 
expressions of yourself. And now that you have lately 
stood on the edge of another life, we feel that we should 
welcome you back to ours with more cordial greetings 
and more earnest voices. 

The manager of the Howard Athenaeum has gener¬ 
ously consented to place his house at the disposition of 
your friends, for the purpose of giving you a compli¬ 
mentary benefit, if agreeable to your wishes, upon such 
evening of next week as may suit your convenience. 


BENJAMIN SEAVER, 

JNO. H. WILKINS, 

SAMPSON REED, 

JOHN P. OBER, 

GEO. S. HILLARD, 

HENRY W. LONGFELLOW, 
E. P. WHIPPLE, 

HENRY T. PARKER, 

P. W. CHANDLER, 

EDW. C. BATES, 

THOMAS LAMB, 


E. P. CLARK, 

T. G. APPLETON, 

WM. ED. CO ALE, 

JOHN WARE, 

HORATIO WOODMAN, 
EDMUND A. GRATTAN, 
A. W. TIIAXTER, Jr., 
JNO. K. HALL, 

EPES SARGENT 
ROBERT G. SHAW. 


I could not read tjiis letter without emotion, but of 
too mixed a character to be framed into lanjruao-e. 
The paramount sensation was thankfulness that I had 
accomplished sufficient in my profession to render my 
well being a matter of interest — my escape from immi¬ 
nent peril a source of rejoicing to minds whose “ good 
report” was so intrinsically valuable. 

I returned an answer expressive of my grateful ac- 


COMPLIMENTARY BENEFIT. 


409 


knowledgments, (that is, I attempted to express them, 
but very possibly failed,) and accepted the compli¬ 
mentary benefit. 

I requested permission to select the character of Par- 
thenia, in Mrs. Lovell’s translation of Ingomar. This 
was one of my favorite imbodiments. There is an in¬ 
nate delicacy, an unconscious goodness, a depth of feel¬ 
ing, a high-toned sense of right pervading the poet’s 
creation of Parthenia which I found irresistibly attrac¬ 
tive. Perhaps, too, I liked the play on account of its 
thorough exemplification of woman’s mysterious influ¬ 
ence over the sterner sex. 

Somebody has laughingly called Ingomar a covert 
“ woman’s rights ” drama. I fancy that few men 
would object to the very obvious right of woman to 
Parthenia-ize without seriously trenching upon their 
sphere of action. 

The complimentary benefit took place on the 21st 
day of May, 1852. It was one of those occasions which 
are written on the pages of life’s record in golden letters. 
But when I stood upon the stage before that brilliant 
crowd, and heard the welcome, — warmer, longer, more 
heart-emanating, and heart-stirring than it had ever 
been before, — my self-possession, for the second time 
since I first trod the stage, wholly forsook me. I think 
there must have been something melting and overpower¬ 
ing in the atmosphere of that particular theatre ; for it 
was upon that stage, five years before, when I appeared 
for the last time previous to our sailing for Europe, that I 
was overcome by a similar ungovernable emotion. And 
those are the only two instances of irrepressible agita¬ 
tion in my eight years of professional experience. I 
was heartily vexed with myself; but I suppose there 


410 


AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF AN ACTRESS. 


are moments in the lives of every one when the barrier 
of self-control is broken through by genuine feeling. 

Mr. Wiseman Marshall* personated Ingomar. Dur¬ 
ing my previous engagements he had rendered the 
character very popular with the Boston audience. I 
had enacted Parthenia a great number of nights ; but I 
believe the play’s repetition awoke no dissenting voice. 

In the second act Parthenia weaves a garland while 
she prattles to the savage, who is becoming humanized 
and Parthenia-ized as he watches her. The flowers on 
that evening were natural ones, abundantly supplied; 
and I wove a garland of some length, which was 
sent to a beloved friend whose illness prevented her 
being present. 

After the benefit, I was induced to fulfil another en¬ 
gagement at the Howard Athenaeum of a fortnight’s 
duration. 

My next appearance was in Cincinnati. I then acted 
several weeks in Louisville. That city is always asso¬ 
ciated in my mind with Henry Clay. It was there that 
I bade him adieu for the last time. And now, when I 
visited Louisville again, the bells were tolling from every 
steeple, the streets were draperied with black ; for Henry 
Clay’s funeral was passing; his mortal remains were on 
their way to their Ashland resting-place. We were re¬ 
siding at the Louisville Hotel. Our drawing-room win¬ 
dow fronted the street. Heavy folds of unrelieved sable 
were stretched story after story from every window but 
one, and that one was ours. There we hung festoons 
of white drapery, intermingled with violet bouquets, and 
a garland of white and purple violets, and ribbons of 


* Mr. Marshall was at this period the manager of the A thenseum. 


EMBLEMATICAL FUNERAL DECORATIONS. 411 


violet, of black, and of white. The whitely-decked 
window shone out strangely amidst the surrounding 
blackness; and many who knew that it had been deco¬ 
rated by one who loved and honored Henry Clay, and 
had been to him an object of openly acknowledged in¬ 
terest, asked for an explanation. With our snow-white 
emblems, flower-mingled, we made an offering to his 
memory as to that of one who was still living: not 
sleeping an unconscious slumber for ages, not annihi¬ 
lated, not separated from us forever; but only trans¬ 
lated to a sphere of higher use; only shut out from us 
by a translucent gate which we, too, would soon enter: 
and so we hung our windows, not with the blackness 
which represents, the darkness that belongs to, the grave, 
but with symbols of the living freshness, gladness, purity 
of the new life; not with the insignia of death, but the 
tokens of the resurrection! * 

The ensuing morning the Louisville Journal gave an 
explanation of our tribute to the memory of Henry 
Clay. 

After this engagement, which ended in July, I re¬ 
turned east to rest during the month of August. My 
professional labors were resumed in September. 

In Buffalo I commenced my engagement on the 
opening night of the Metropolitan Theatre, newly erect¬ 
ed. The opening of a theatre is ahvays a period of 
great excitement. The gradual completion that looks 
like incompletion; the apparent impossibility, even at 
the last rehearsal, of accomplishing all that remains to 
be done; the jostling activity of the stage carpenters, 
the rapid painting of the scenic artists ; the perplexity 

* The black ribbons alone indicated the passage through the 
grave. 


412 


AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF AN ACTRESS. 


of the actors, who cannot hear, through the sound of 
hammers, their own voices rehearsing ; the flurry of the 
stage manager ; the flitting to and fro of the architect; 
the wondering of all how the new temple of art, await¬ 
ing its consecration, will look when lighted up ; the 
freshness, the bustle, the confusion, — form a com¬ 
bination of stirring elements that diffuse themselves 
through the whole theatre in the day, and, at night, are 
communicated to the audience. 

In the evening the throng in front of the building 
became so dense that the doors of the theatre had to be 
thrown open to admit them while the scaffolding was 
still upon the stage. The audience were thus made 
witnesses of a most painful accident. One of the car¬ 
penters, in attempting to execute his work as quickly 
as possible, fell from the scaffolding, and was seriously 
injured. 

The curtain rose upon the members of the company 
assembled upon the stage. Then was sung the national 
anthem of “ Hail, Columbia! ” 

At its conclusion I entered and delivered the inaugu¬ 
ral address, written by Anson G. Chester, Esq. The 
audience responded heartily to such passages as the 
following: — 

“ To its ” (the Drama’s) “ good use we henceforth set apart 
This fair creation of the hand of Art. 

Within these walls shall Virtue ever rule ; 

This be her throne, her altar, and her school! 

’ Here will we seek her precepts to defend, 

And, while we please, will elevate and mend; 

So shall the Drama’s first intentions find 
A fit translation to the modern mind.” 

Almost every one of the above lines was interrupted 
by an emphatic burst of applause; distinctly showing 


STAGE FRIGHT OF AN ARCHITECT. 


413 


what class of performances the public were prepared to 
patronize. 

After the opening address rose a loud demand for 
Mr. T-e, the architect of the theatre, to whose tal¬ 

ents and skill several edifices in New York bear witness. 
He certainly had erected a theatre in admirable taste, 
and deserved public thanks. The worthy architect had 
been apprised that he must acknowledge the kindness of 
the audience by a few appropriate words — a necessity 
which caused him great alarm. His mind had been 
kept on the stretch for many days and nights in super¬ 
intending the completion of the theatre. He had ob¬ 
tained no rest, and was now thoroughly worn out with 
excitement and fatigue. After a protracted and clamor¬ 
ous summons the curtain drew back ; Mr. T-e trem¬ 

blingly appeared, took a couple of steps upon the stage, 
made several nervous attempts to execute a bow, fal¬ 
tered out, “ Gen-tle-men — and — la-a-dies,” staggered 
back, two steps taking him out of sight, and, panic- 
stricken, fainted away! 

I was completing my toilet for the play, and, hearing 
the sudden cessation of applause from the audience and 
a confusion behind the scenes, I feared some new acci¬ 
dent had occurred. As soon as I was dressed I hastened 
to inquire, and received the above relation from the 
stage manager, Mr. Smith. 

The accomplished but timid architect was joked un¬ 
mercifully about his attack of stage fright. Some of his 
friends declared that he only fainted because he had 
accidentally said, “ Gentlemen and ladies” instead of 
giving precedence to the latter, and terror at the remem¬ 
brance of “ woman’s rights,” thus rudely infringed, had 
overpowered him. 




414 


AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF AN ACTRESS. 


After this I fulfilled an engagement in Syracuse. In 
passing through Boston I acted one night, and engaged 
to return with the new year. My next engagement 
was in Philadelphia; but a severe attack of bronchitis 
rendered its fulfilment impossible. 

The disease seemed singularly prevalent in all thea¬ 
tres during that season. I several times assisted at 
rehearsals where three or four of the actors were so 
seriously affected that they could not venture to use their 
voices in the morning. The little power left was re¬ 
served for night. At rehearsal they went through the 
action of the play in dumb show, standing, sitting, kneel¬ 
ing, pacing the stage, crossing from right to left, or left 
to right, as the business of the scene demanded, but in 
perfect silence, while the prompter read aloud the words 
of their parts. It reminded me of the ludicrous game 
of “ dumb orator.” 

My next engagement, commencing in November, was 
to take place at the Broadway Theatre. My home in 
New York was at the residence of my brother-in-law, 

Dr. T-r. The bronchial affection from which I was 

suffering had been very much relieved by his medical 
skill, and I was able to meet my engagement at the time 
appointed. I opened in Parthenia, and that night used 
my voice with tolerable facility; but the next, while I 
was enacting Rosalind, the power of speech left me 
entirely. At its forceful return, through my strong 
volition, it seemed as though the voice of somebody else 
had been mysteriously substituted for mine. The en¬ 
gagement thus became an exceedingly painful one. I 
was urged to complete it, if possible. How I was enabled 
to do so appears a matter of wonder. All that medical 
science could effect for me was constantly counteracted 



lHE FLORAL STAR. 


415 


by my nightly exertions. On some evenings the utter¬ 
ance of every sentence was a separate misery. I heart¬ 
ily rejoiced when the engagement came to a close. 

In December I had recovered sufficiently to appear 
in Baltimore. A singular presentation was made to me 
during this engagement, on my benefit night— that of a 
young fawn, garlanded with flowers. It was a testi¬ 
monial from the Fireman’s Library Association. The 
fawn was first taken to my dressing room, and then 
brought upon the stage during the comedy of the Honey 
Moon. Lopez delivered it to Juliana in the cottage 
scene. My new pet followed me about and played his 
part to perfection. When the Duke and Lopez were 
conversing, I seated myself upon a footstool beside the 
table, and the gentle fawn ate out of my hand, varying 
the feast by munching my curls, greatly to the amuse¬ 
ment of the audience. This by-play did not interrupt 
the dialogue between the Duke and countryman, who 
occupied the front of the stage. 

On the same evening was presented to me (I believe 
from the same source) the most exquisite floral offering 
tnat I ever received. It was a star, about a foot and a 
half or two feet in height and in breadth, composed of 
double camelias of various hues, the white predomi¬ 
nating. Both sides of the star-bouquet were alike, and 
the framework on which it was composed was rendered 
invisible by thickly clustering flowers. It was handed 
from the boxes to A. W. Fenno, Esq., (who supported 
me during the engagement,) and placed by him in my 
arms. The rare beauty and delicacy of the gift gave 
me much pleasure; but I was especially charmed that 
the flowers had been woven into the form of one of the 
chief emblems of that country whose daughter I was 
proud to be called. 


416 


AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF AN ACTRESS. 


f returned to Boston, according to promise, in Janu¬ 
ary, and acted several weeks. My voice had slightly 
improved. At times, I could use it without difficulty ; 
but the least nervousness or anxiety was the signal for 
the departure of every smoother tone. 

My southern tour was now to commence. In Wash¬ 
ington I appeared for the first time, reengaging twice. 
I next performed in Richmond, and then proceeded to 
Mobile. It was my first visit to that city since my 
return from Europe. I had abundant and most flatter¬ 
ing cause to believe that I had not been forgotten. I 
rank that engagement amongst those which I shall ever 
look back upon with truest pleasure. 

In New Orleans we had violent storms of rain through 
the larger half of the engagement. The climate had an 
injurious effect upon my health, and it was with difficulty 
that I struggled through the stipulated number of per¬ 
formances. Armand was produced here as in every 
other city in which I had performed. Fashion was also 
enacted at the St. Charles Theatre, and repeated several 
nights, drawing larger houses than any other play. The 
comedy was exceedingly well acted. The Adam True¬ 
man of Mr. Lynn won him high and deserved encomi¬ 
ums. The Snobson of Mr. De Bar more than once 
overcame my gravity of countenance. I was content 
to enact Gertrude, as the character obviated all neces¬ 
sity for exertion — exertion which I was nightly be¬ 
coming more unable to make. 


CHAPTER XXVI. 


Departure from New Orleans. — Memphis. — The Promise to Henry 
Clay fulfilled. — First Appearance. — Actors' habitual Disregard 
of physical Ailments.—Instance in London. — Anecdote of Mrs. 
Glover's last Night. — My second Appearance in Memphis. — 
Struggle with Indisposition. — Unavoidable Interruption of Play. — 
Malaria.—Journey eastward. — Acting for Mrs. Warner's com¬ 
plimentary Benefit. — Summer Intentions frustrated. — Serious and 
protracted Illness. — Removal to Ravenswood. — My Father's 

House. — The distinguished Dr. M - tt. — Life's Movement in a 

sick Chamber. — Summer. — Autumn. — Winter's Approach. — 
The Pine Trees. — Sunsets. — Musings. — Cheerful Visitants to 
the little Chamber. — A Child's Tribute to a Father. — Antici¬ 
pated Recovery. — Proposed Farewell of the Stage. — Answer to a 
Question often asked. — Aristocratic Affectation amongst the Pro¬ 
fession. — Passion for the Stage. — A few Words of Warning to 
the young Aspirant for dramatic Honors. 

We left New Orleans about the middle of March, 
1853, in the queenly Magnolia. The young nephew 
Stanislas, whom I mentioned in the preceding chapter, 
was again my gallant escort. In four days we reached 
Memphis. Six years before I had promised Henry 
Clay not to pass that city again without appearing there 
in my professional capacity. I had never travelled on 
the southern portion of the Mississippi River since the 
spring when we spent those pleasant days with our dis¬ 
tinguished countryman, on board of the Alexander Scott. 
We arrived in Memphis on Sunday morning. The 
next evening I made my debut in Parthenia. I had 
been ill during my whole stay in New Orleans, and was 
27 ( 417 ) 


418 


AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF AN ACTRESS. 


now making a desperate struggle with indisposition. I 
found the audience particularly inspiring — the engage¬ 
ment promised to be brilliant in the extreme. As the 
curtain fell upon each act of Ingomar, I found it more 
and more difficult to proceed; but I knew from expe¬ 
rience that a strongly concentrated will could master the 
infirmities of an exhausted 'physique. I invoked to my 
aid all the mental energy that could obey the summons, 
and ended the play successfully. 

The next night I was announced to appear as Mrs. 
Haller. If I had been governed by common prudence, 
— I had almost written common sense , — I should not 
have attempted the performance. But long habit, and 
the example of others, had accustomed me to make 
light of physical ailments when they interfered with 
professional duty. I had seen many an actor walk ma¬ 
jestically upon the stage and play a part with thrilling 
effect, who, the instant he was without the range of the 
footlights, sank down, unable to speak or to stand, from 
the excess of acute suffering. I have often seen actors 
fall into long fits of swooning, and, on recovering, be 
forced to return to the stage and continue their imbodi- 
ments. I remember one occasion in England when an 
actor, who was personating my father, drew down the 
displeasure of an audience by his feeble and uncertain 
delivery of the text. How little they suspected that 
he was dying at that very moment! Three days after¬ 
wards he had departed this life. 

Mrs. Glover’s last night in London * is an instance 
of the indomitable energy that characterizes the votary 
of the stage in his conflict with external circumstances. 

* I was in England at the time. The above description was given 
me by a friend who was present at Mrs. Glover’s farewell. 


STRUGGLE WITH INDISPOSITION. 


419 


She rose from an illness which her physician had pro¬ 
nounced fatal, to enact Mrs. Malaprop (in the comedy 
of the Rivals) on the occasion of her farewell of the 
stage. The instant the performance was over, her 
temporary strength evaporated. She was incapable of 
answering the summons of the audience — of crossing 
the stage before the footlights and courtesying her 
acknowledgments. At their clamorous demand to be¬ 
hold her once more, she was placed in an arm chair in 
the centre of the stage, surrounded and supported by a 
galaxy of distinguished performers, who had congre¬ 
gated in honor of her farewell. The curtain rose — 
she feebly bowed her thanks, her adieu — smiled upon 
the bouquets that fell in a floral deluge around her — 
the curtain descended upon her last triumph. She was 
taken home, and in two days breathed her last. 

A host of similar^ instances might be given to illus¬ 
trate how difficult it is for an actor to admit the possi¬ 
bility of his physical condition interfering with the dis¬ 
charge of his public duty. It was an impression of this 
kind, deeply stamped upon my mind, that lured me to 
commit the indiscretion of endeavoring to perform on 
my second night in Memphis. 

Mrs. Haller has but a few words to speak in the first 
act; and those I managed to utter, though with difficulty, 
for a fresh attack of bronchitis was added to incipient 
malaria. In the second act I had scarcely*entered upon 
the stage before I began to be aware that I had miscal¬ 
culated my powers. The third time I attempted to 
speak I found my voice had entirely departed. Again 
and again I tried to force out a sound — but my lips 

opened and closed again noiselessly. Dr. S-h, who 

afterwards attended me, used to say that he never 



420 


AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF AN ACTRESS. 


witnessed an exhibition at once so comical and so painful. 
The lips moving without producing the faintest articu¬ 
lation — the look of consternation quickly followed by 
an expression of resolution not to be vanquished — the 
impotent battle with the inevitable. 

But I was conquered — I could not speak, and I 
could not have maintained an erect position much longer. 
The considerate manager, Mr.- Charles, who occupied 
the stage with me, instantly apologized to the audience, 
and the curtain fell. 

For nine days I remained dangerously ill. Dr. 

S-h advised that I should be removed the instant 

that I could bear the journey. He gave it as his med¬ 
ical opinion that, although it was hardly possible for me 
to rally in that atmosphere, I would rapidly recover 
when I once reached the other side of the mountains. 
We left Memphis on the twelfth day of our sojourn 
there, and, travelling slowly, arrived at my sister’s resi¬ 
dence, in Philadelphia, in ten days more. As Dr. 

S-h predicted, I began to revive as soon as we 

passed the mountains, and was soon convalescent. 

At this period Mrs. Warner was about to leave 
America, where she had encountered a series of most 
heartbreaking trials. The autumn previous I had 
promised her my services for a benefit, at any time 
when she chose to call upon me. I thus hoped to make 
amends, in a slight degree, for the losses and discom¬ 
fitures which had waylaid her whole path in a foreign 
land. She was now just recovering from a dangerous 
illness — or rather, was supposed to be recovering. 
Late tidings bring the sad intelligence of a relapse, which 
it is feared may prove fatal. She was to receive a 
complimentary benefit at the Howard Athenseum, in 




PROTRACTED ILLNESS. 


421 


Boston, and requested the fulfilment of my promise. I 
consented to enact Desdemona to her Emelia, and went 
to Boston for that purpose about the middle of May. 
On the morning of the benefit Mrs. Warner was still 
unable to leave her apartment. The benefit, however, 
took place, and a thronged attendance proved the high 
estimation in which she was held by an American 
public. Mrs. M. Jones filled the role of Emelia in 
Mrs. Warner’s stead. I represented Desdemona — 
Mr. Marshall Othello. I tonce more used my voice 
with great facility; but the exertion consequent even 
upon so unarduous a performance made me conscious 
of unusual deficiency of strength and elasticity. 

I had arranged to make an extensive western tour 
during this summer, which was to be my last upon the 
stage. But 

“ L’homme propose, Dieu dispose.” 

I had never recovered entirely from my attack in 
Memphis. Early in June I was again taken seriously 
ill. After six weeks of suffering, which surpassed in 
severity all my previous experiences of what mortality 
can endure, my father insisted that I should be brought 
to his residence at Ravenswood and placed under the 
care of the celebrated Dr. M——tt, whose eminence as 
surgeon and physician has been recognized in both 
hemispheres, and has even rendered him famous on 
olden, classic ground.* 

I had lost all power of locomotion, and was thoroughly 
helpless. But I had made not a few journeys before 
on temporary beds, placed in railway cars and in car- 


* See Mott’s Travels in Europe and the East. 


422 


AUTOBIOGRAPHY OP AN ACTRESS. 


riages, and was now forced to this sad necessity again. 
(I must say that I greatly preferred my seat of hay in 
the corner of the old ox cart, which jolted us over the 
frozen wilds of Indiana.) My faithful sister May, a.t 
whose house in Boston I had been residing, accompanied 
me. We reached our father’s dwelling in safety, and L 
was borne to the sunny, white-curtained chamber, where 
I am now reclining. 

Month after month has glided away, — the flower- 
scented Summer has buried her perfumes and flown, — 
the crimson-fingered Autumn has trampled her tinted 
foliage under foot and departed, — Winter is beginning 
to show his hard-featured and frostbitten face, and finds 
this little chamber still my compulsory abiding-place. 
There have been no flower gatherings, no garden 
ramblings, for me since June. Day after day I have 
looked out with longing eyes upon the gardens beneath 
my window, and watched the flowers, that enamelled the 
fair earth, one by one pale on their stems — wither and 
disappear. The last dahlia has just dropped its head 
and died. There are a cluster of pine trees that look 
in at one of my windows, and I have found daily 
delight — I might say actual comfort — in gazing at 
their emerald beauty. I know every branch, every 
little twig, almost every bird, which, through the 
summer, has sat in the boughs and made vocal the air 
with his matin songs. The wind plays through those 
pine-tree branches, as on an instrument, with a muffled, 
musical sound, like that of a human voice, called by 
singers a “veiled voice.” I have never heard wind 
sighing, through any other trees, produce the same 
hushed, murmuring melody. And what gloriously 
golden sunsets I have beheld through those pine-tree 


life’s movement in the sick chamber. 423 


branches, as I lay looking out at the sky ! what soft 
moonlight shinings! what brilliant starlight gleam- 
ings! One of my chief amusements is watching the 
setting sun, that at each departure assumes some fare¬ 
well robe of varied splendor. And sometimes I muse 
upon a life’s early dawn that broke, flooding the horizon 
with radiance ; upon the storms that gathered before 
morning had passed; upon clouds that parted at noon¬ 
day, to let through an unlooked-for effulgence; and as 
I dreamily gaze at the sun, going down in mellow glory, 
I think of a sunset of peace that may be given for such 
a life’s closing. 

I lift my eyes, and they fall upon the pine trees 
again. But now the rich green of their plumy foliage 
is taking a rusty hue; for Winter, as he strides on with 
ice-shod feet, has breathed upon them coldly. The 
clustering cones that brownly spangled the boughs have 
ripened; and the wind is shaking them to the ground, 
like hopes that fall to plant the seed of new hopes. I 
shall see the snow enshroud the pine-tree branches, and 
be still a prisoner. Yet, even in a sick chamber, the 
slow movement of life may be calm and glad. Patience 
may pour upon the spirit her medicinal balm. Hope 
may sit enthroned in the heart, shining with steadfast 
lustre. Memory, unfolding her tablets, may point to 
some bright and consoling records. The voices of 
tenderness may fall in music on the pain-quickened ear. 
The holy ties of kinship, the adamantine chains of 
friendship, may be drawn closer than ever. Let my 
future be cast where it may, I must perforce look 
back with loving remembrance upon the pleasant little 
chamber beneath my father’s roof, where, if I have suf¬ 
fered mucR, I have rejoiced more. 


424 


AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF AN ACTRESS. 


The ten sisters have never again been gathered in 
the paternal home; but each one not separated by the 
ocean has come, in turn, to shed her sweet influence 
around the couch of the invalid — some to spend but days, 
some weeks, and some months. And the tender second 
mother has flitted in and out each day, drawing the 
sunshine after her, and performing thoughtful offices of 
love; and the young sisters, whose home I now share, 
have gladdened the room with their blooming presence, 
their prattling tongues ; and the faithful attendant, who 
has journeyed with me by land and by sea, has proved 
as devoted and as patient by the couch of sickness as she 
was cheerful and intrepid in our far-off wanderings. 

And last, though ever first, shall I not reverently 
speak of your precious visits to the cheerful chamber, 
my father ? Shall I say no word of you, who, through 
the varied vicissitudes of my life, sustained and encour¬ 
aged me in all my strenuous exertions — you, who con¬ 
soled me under all my hard trials — you, whose own 
unconquerable energy has taught me how to battle with 
life’s ills — whose example of smiling fortitude has shown 
me how to be victorious over inflexible circumstance — 
whose recognition of divine Providence, even in things 
most minute, has strengthened my faith — whose daily 
acts have given to your precepts double weight — you, 
who forgot the shortcomings of my wayward girlhood, 
and opened your arms, your heart, to me without breath¬ 
ing one reproach? May I not record these things of 
you, and say, that to you I owe the possession of some 
of those qualities which have rendered your own 
struggles in life blessed — which have made manifest the 
softening uses of sorrow ? Surely this is a tribute which 
a child may pay to a father, even in the world’s full 


PROPOSED FAREWELL OF THE STAGE. 425 

hearing. I do not attempt to restrain the outgushing 
of my spirit when I speak of you. My memoirs would 
neither be truthful nor complete if they contained no 
chronicle such as I have written above. 

Two thirds of those memoirs have been penned in 
the quiet little chamber I have described — penned 
during intervals from suffering and a period of slow 
convalescence. 

When I fully recover my health, (as the distinguished 
physician mentioned above, who has expended his skill 
upon me for nearly five months, is confident I shall do,) 
I purpose taking a brief farewell of my profession in 
some of the principal cities of the Union. I desire to 
leave that profession as calmly and as deliberately as it 
was entered; for I shall bid it adieu with those objects, 
imperiously summoned by which I first bore the name 
of actress, happily accomplished. 

I will here answer a question in relation to the stage 
which I am frequently asked. There are some who 
may be profited by the reply. “ Are you fond of the 
stage?” has been the inquiry put by many lips during 
the last eight years. There is a species of aristocratic 
affectation existing amongst the members of the pro¬ 
fession, which induces many of them to declare that they 
detest their own vocation—that they dislike nothing so 
much as acting, &c. I have heard this assertion again 
and again from the mouths of the most successful per¬ 
formers ; and all affectation seems to me so inconsistent 
with true talent that I could not but listen in wonder. 
But, as I have said, to declare that the stage is distaste¬ 
ful, is looked upon as a sign of professional aristocracy. 
For my own part, I answer frankly, I have received 
intense delight from the personation of some characters. 


426 


AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF AN ACTRESS. 


The power of swaying the emotions of a crowd is one 
of the most thrilling sensations that I ever experienced. 
Yet I have not found in the profession the kind of 
absorbing fascination which I have often heard described 
as inseparable from the stage. There were too many 
incongruous elements mingled with every dramatic tri¬ 
umph for the charm, if any, to be complete. Without 
looking upon the theatre as a Circean bower, without 
entertaining a passion for the stage, I have a quiet love 
for the drama, which, Heaven forbid, with my convic¬ 
tions in regard to its use, I should ever shrink from 
acknowledging. Without some decided attachment for 
the profession, I cannot conceive how the fatigues, 
the vexations, the disappointments incident even upon 
the most successful theatrical career, could be sup¬ 
ported. 

Let me here venture to warn any enthusiastic young 
aspirant against adopting the stage, unless her qualifica¬ 
tions— not to use a much abused word, and say her 
mission — seem particularly to fit her for such a voca¬ 
tion, unless she be strongly impelled by the possession 
of talents which are unquestionable, unless she be en¬ 
amoured of Art itself. But that the dangers of the pro¬ 
fession are such as they are generally accredited to be, 
I do not believe; for I have known too many women 
bred upon the stage, whose lives were so blamelessly 
exemplary, whose manners so refined, whose intellect 
so cultivated, that they would adorn any sphere of 
society. The subject is not one into which I can fully 
enter; but this let me say, that the woman who could 
be dazzled by the adulation bestowed upon her talents 
as an actress, would be dazzled and led astray in the 
blaze of a ball room, in the excitement of social inter- 


WORDS OF WARNING To YOUNG ASPIRANTS. 427 


course, in any situation where those talents could he 
displayed, in any position where she could hear 

“ The false glozings of a flattering tongue.” 

And from these where will she be shielded, except in 
utter seclusion ? 

But to return to the subject from which I wandered. 
Unless the actress in anticipation is willing to encounter 
disappointment in myriad unlooked-for shapes; to study 
incessantly, and find that her closest study is insufficient; 
to endure an amount and kind of fatigue which she never 
dreamed of before; if she feel “ the grasshopper a 
burden,” and the “crumpled rose leaf” an inconven¬ 
ience to her slumber, I would bid her shun the stage. 
But if she be prepared to meet petty as well as formi¬ 
dable trials, (the former are often more difficult to bear 
than the latter;) if she be sustained by some high 
purpose, some strong incentive; if she act in obedience 
to the dictates of the “ stern lawgiver, Duty,” — then 
let her enter the profession boldly; by gracing, help to 
elevate the stage; and add hers to the purifying influ¬ 
ences which may dwell within the walls of a theatre as 
securely as in any other temple of art. Let her bear 
in mind that the sometimes degraded name of “actress” 
can be dignified in her own person. Let her feel, above 
all things, that the actress must excite reverence as well 
as admiration. The crowd must honor as well as wor¬ 
ship. They can always be made to do the latter at 
the feet of genius; they can only be compelled to do 
the former when genius sheds its halo around higher 
attributes. 


CHAPTER XXVII. 


My Claims to offer a De fence of the Stage. — Lord Bacon on the 
Drama .— Sir Joshua Reynolds. — D'Israeli. — The rude Attempts 
of Thespis. — AEschylus. — Existence of Theatres at the Time of 
the first Christian Era. — The Apostles. — St. Paid's Quotations 
from three dramatic Poets. — The Parables and the Drama. — 
Dr. Isaac Watts. — The Emperor Marcus Aurelius upon the Stage. 
— Martin Luther. — The Rev. Dr. Knox. — Philip Melancthon. — 
Lord Bacon. — Dr. Blair. — Sir Philip Sidney. — Dr. Gregory. — 
Sir Walter Scott. — Calcraft. — Art. — Use and Abuse. — With 
whom it lies to reform the Errors of the Stage.—Two Hundred 
clerical dramatic Authors. — Dramas of the Archbishop Gregory 
Nazianzen ; of Apollinaris, Bishop of Laodicea. — Sir Thomas 
More .— Tragedies of Milton, of Dr. Edward Young, of Rev. II. 
Milman, Rev. Dr. Croly, Addison, Dr. Johnson, Cole't'idge, Thom¬ 
son, Goldsmith, Miss Hannah More, Miss Joanna Baillie, Miss 
Mitford. — The Stage: Pope’s Exposition of its Use; Crabbe’s 
ditto ; Shakspeare’s. — My own Experience. — The true Position 
of Actors. — Their Rank in ancient Times. — The high social Po¬ 
sition held by many Actors in the present Time. — A Word of 
Farewell to the Members of the Profession. — These Memoirs. 

I have been for eight years an actress. In the ex¬ 
ercise of my vocation I have visited many theatres 
throughout this land and in Great Britain. This fact, 
perhaps, gives me some right to speak upon the stage 
as an institution; upon its uses and abuses; for I speak 
(in all humility be it said) from actual knowledge and 
personal experience. My testimony has, at least, the 
value of being disinterested; for I was not bred to the 
stage; I entered upon it from the bosom of private life; 
none who are linked to me by affinity of blood ever 

(428) 


THE STAGE. 


429 


belonged to the profession ; I am about to leave it of 
my own choice ; and I bid it farewell in the midst of a 
career which, if it has reached its meridian, has not, as 
yet, taken the first downward inclination. I can have 
no object in defending the drama apart from the impulse 
to utter what I believe to be truth and an innate love 
and reverence for dramatic art. 

The stage is not an insignificant pastime. History 
teaches us that it is an institution which has existed 
almost from time immemorial; protected by the laws ; 
consecrated by the dramatic teachings of divines and 
sages; and accepted as a mode of instruction, as well as 
of diversion, in almost all lands. It is a school most 
important in its operations, most potent in its admo¬ 
nitions, most profusely productive of good or evil in¬ 
fluences. The actor sways the multitude even as the 
preacher and the orator, often more powerfully than 
either. He arouses their slumbering energies; elevates 
their minds; calls forth their loftiest aspirations; ex¬ 
cites their purest emotions; or, if he be false to his 
trust, a perverted instrument, he may minister to viti¬ 
ated tastes, and help to corrupt, to enervate, to debase. 

“ It is impossible,” says a writer in the Edinburgh 
Review, “ for a person unacquainted with dramatic 
representations to understand the effect produced on a 
mixed mass of the people, when a striking sentiment is 
uttered by a popular actor. The conviction is instan¬ 
taneous. Hundreds of stormy voices are awakened; 
the spirit of every individual is in arms; and a thousand 
faces are lighted up, which, a moment before, seemed 
calm and powerless ; and their impression is not so 
transient as may be thought. It is carried home and 
nursed till it ripens. It is a germ which blossoms out 
into patriotism, or runs up rank into prejudice or pas- 


430 


AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF AN ACTRESS. 


sion. It is intellectual property honestly acquired. 
Men are often amused, and sometimes instructed, by 
books. But a tragedy is a great moral lesson, read to 
two senses at once; and the eye and the ear are both 
held in alliance to retain the impression which the actor 
has produced.” 

Lord Bacon tells us that “the drama is as history 
brought before the eyes. It presents the images of 
things as if they were present, while history treats of 
them as things past.” 

Sir Joshua Reynolds says, “ Every establishment 
that tends to the cultivation of the pleasures of the 
mind, as distinct from those of the sense, may be con¬ 
sidered as an inferior school of morality , where the 
mind is polished and prepared for higher attainments.” 

D’Israeli (the elder) declares that “ the stage is a 
supplement to the pulpit, where virtue, according to 
Plato’s sublime idea, moves our love and affection when 
made visible to the eye.” 

It was in the age of the wise Solon, something more 
than two thousand four hundred years ago, that the 
rude dramatic attempts of Thespis awoke the admira¬ 
tion of the Athenians. The performances he instituted 
were a species of monologue, relieved by chorus. Upon 
this imperfect foundation the noble iEschylus built the 
classic drama, and gained the name of the “ father of 
tragic song.” Since that period, in those countries 
where civilization has made the most rapid progress, 
where the social tone has been most elevated, where 
taste and refinement have superseded mere sensuality, 
the Drama has held her most prosperous sway. Dra¬ 
matic art was at its zenith in Rome during the Augustan 
age; in Greece when iEschylus, Sophocles, and Eu¬ 
ripides taught in her dramatic temples ; in France dur- 


PROGRESS OF THE DRAMA WITH CIVILIZATION. 431 


ing the so called “ golden reign ” of Louis XIV., when 
Corneille and Racine wrote* not merely moral , but ab¬ 
solutely religious plays ; and even Voltaire impressed 
piety into his tragedies. (That his other works are 
pervaded with an opposite spirit does not alter this fact.) 
Dr. Isaac Watts, the distinguished divine, says, “ What 
a noble use have Racine and Corneille made of Chris¬ 
tian subjects in some of their best tragedies ! ” 

In England the drama — though often lamentably 
misused and degraded — shed glory upon the reigns of 
Elizabeth and Anne, and is held in increasing honor at 
the present epoch — the most peaceful and prosperous 
with which that kingdom has ever been blessed. 

Let us go back farther, even to the period of the first 
Christian era, and learn whether the outcry against 
theatres is justified by the records of antiquity. There 
were theatres in Jerusalem when our Savior came 
upon earth. Yet by no sign does he point them out as 
fatally pernicious; by no word, no implication, even, 
does he denounce them. 

There were theatres at Damascus, at Ephesus, 
at Antioch, at Corinth, at Athens, at Thessalonica, 
at Philippi, at Alexandria, at Rome. The apostles 
preached the gospel in those cities, and reproved many 
vices ; yet by no syllable of rebuke do they designate 
the theatre as immoral. Is it likely if an institution, 
which was to perpetuate itself down to the present day, 
were, essentially demoralizing, it would have escaped 
the breath of their holy denunciation ? 

St. Paul is called the most learned of the apostles ; 
and in his teachings he quotes from three Greek dra¬ 
matic poets — from Arastus, of Cilicia ; from Epimeni- 
des, of Crete ; and from Menander, the Athenian ; thus 


432 


autobiography of an actress. 


giving his own countenance to the theatre by his famil¬ 
iar use of dramatic poetry. 

In the sacred Scriptures there is not a single- passage 
which, by any fair inference, can be distorted into a 
condemnation of theatrical entertainments. And yet 
how many sincere and truth-loving Christians believe it 
to be their duty to raise a hue and cry against the stage! 

A distinguished clergyman of our own land lately 
remarked, from the pulpit, that he feared there were 
many persons, even among the denouncers of the drama, 
who were beneath a taste for the stage rather than above 
it; conveying the idea that the cultivation of those in¬ 
tellectual tastes and moral sympathies which find their 
gratification in dramatic performances, was a step in 
moral advancement which many unsympathizing de¬ 
criers of the stage would not, or could not, take. 

The parables are truths enveloped in fiction. The 
drama merely represents in action what the parable and 
similar fictions inculcate by written or oral teaching. 
The play is but the dramatized form of the poem, the 
novel, history, or the parable. And the mind is more 
vividly impressed by what it sees enacted than by what 
it hears related. 

Take, for instance, the parable of the prodigal son. 
There can be no one so obtuse as not to admit the force 
and beauty of the illustration intended to be conveyed 
in it. Suppose that some dramatist, to enforce the 
lesson of paternal forgiveness upon minds which can be 
more deeply penetrated by visible symbols than by 
lecture, throws the parable into dramatic form, bringing 
out in appropriate language the whole moral of the 
story, and has it represented in a theatre. Does the 
mere translation of the parable into represented action 


DE. WATTS ON THE DRAMA. 


433 


render it pernicious ? In this illustration we have the 
whole principle of the drama. 

A few seasons ago this very parable was produced as 
a spectacle at Drury Lane, under the name of Azael. 
It met with very decided success. I am not certain, 
but my impression is that it was translated from the 
French. 

Dr. Isaac Watts, the author of Divine Hymns, thus 
alludes to the fitness of scriptural subjects for dramatic 
exposition : “ If the trifling and incredible tales that 
furnish out a tragedy are so armed by art and fancy as 
to become sovereign of the rational powers, to tri¬ 
umph over the affections, and manage our smiles and 
our tears at pleasure, how wondrous a conquest might 
be obtained over a wide world, and reduce it at least 
to sobriety, if the same happy talent were employed 
in dressing scenes of religion in their proper figures of 
majesty, sweetness, and terror! The affairs of this life, 
with reference to a life to come, would shine brightly in 
a dramatic description.” 

This is high authority in favor of the drama. As a 
strong aid to my own imperfectly expressed arguments in 
its defence, I cull a few opinions from sources which com¬ 
mand reverence, out of the multitude that might be 
given, did space allow. The authorities I shall cite are 
such as should make any man pause before he ventures 
unconditionally to denounce the stage. 

Marcus Aurelius, an emperor distinguished for his 
piety, says, “ Tragedies were first brought in and insti¬ 
tuted to put men in mind of worldly chances and casual¬ 
ties. After the tragedy, the comceaia vetus, or ancient 
comedy, was brought in, which had the liberty to inveigh 
against personal vices ; being, therefore, through this, 
28 


434 


AUTOBIOGRAPHY OP AN ACTRESS. 


her freedom and liberty of speech, of very good use and 
effect to restrain men from pride and arrogance; to which 
end it was that Diogenes took also the same liberty.” 

Martin Luther, on the subject of the stage, says,* 
“ In ancient times the dramatic art has been honored 
by being made subservient to religion and morality ; and 
in the most enlightened country of antiquity, in Greece, 
the theatre was supported by the state. The dramatic 
nature of the dialogues of Plato has always been justly 
celebrated; and from this we may conceive the great 
charm of dramatic poetry. Action is the true enjoy¬ 
ment of life; nay, life itself. The great bulk of man¬ 
kind are, either from their situation or their incapacity 
for uncommon efforts, confined within a narrow circle 
of operations ; of all amusements , therefore , the theatre 
is the most profitable , for there we see important actions 
when we cannot act importantly ourselves. It affords 
us a renovated picture of life, a compendium of what¬ 
ever is animated and interesting in human existence. 
The susceptible youth opens his heart to every elevated 
feeling — the philosopher finds a subject for the deepest 
reflections on the nature and constitution of man.” 

In another work, Martin Luther says,f “ And, in¬ 
deed, Christians ought not altogether to fly and abstain 
from comedies, because now and then gross tricks and 
dallying passages are acted therein; for then it will fol¬ 
low, that, by reason thereof, we should also abstain from 
reading the Bible. Therefore it is of no value that some 
allege such and the like things , and for these causes 
would forbid Christians to read or act comedies.” 

The Rev. Dr. Knox, in his Essays, says, “ There 

* See Luther’s Tishgesprftche. 

f See Bell’s translation of Mart. Lutheri Colloquia Mensalia. 


PHILIP MELANCTHON ON THE STAGE. 435 

seems to me to be no method more effectual of soften¬ 
ing the ferocity and improving the minds of the lower 
classes of a great capital than the frequent exhibitions 
of tragical pieces, in which the distress is carried to the 
highest extreme, and the moral is at once self-evident, 
affecting, and instructive. The multitudes of those who 
cannot read, or, if they could, have neither time nor 
abilities for deriving much advantage from reading, are 
powerfully impressed, through the medium of the eyes 
and ears, with those important truths which, while they 
illuminate the understanding, correct and mollify the 
heart. Benevolence, justice, heroism, and the wisdom 
of moderating the passions are plainly pointed out, and 
forcibly recommended to those savage sons of unculti¬ 
vated nature who have few opportunities, and would 
have no inclination, for instruction, if it did not present 
itself in the form of a delightful amusement.” 

Philip Melancthon says,* “ On frequent reflection 
concerning the manners and discipline of mankind, I 
greatly admire the wisdom of the Greeks, who at the 
commencement exhibited tragedies to the people, by no 
■means for the purpose of mere amusement , as is com¬ 
monly thought, but much more on this account, that, by 
the consideration of heinous examples and misfortunes, 
they might turn their rude and fierce spirits to modera¬ 
tion and the bridling of undue desires. These things, 
therefore, were acted, beheld, read, and listened to, 
both by the philosophers and the people, not as mere 
romances, but as instructions for the government of life . 
Men were thus warned of the causes of human calami¬ 
ties,, which in those examples they saw brought on and 
increased by depraved desires.” 


* Epistola de legendis Tragoediis et Comoediis. 


436 


AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF AN ACTRESS. 


Lord Bacon says,* “ Dramatic poesy, which has the 
theatre for its world, is of excellent use, if soundly ad¬ 
ministered. The stage can do much, either for corrup¬ 
tion or discipline.” 

Dr. Blair, one of the most eminent of divines, says, 
w Dramatic poetry has, among civilized nations, been al¬ 
ways considered a rational and useful entertainment , 
and judged worthy of careful and serious discussion. 
As tragedy is a high and distinguishing species of com¬ 
position, so also, in its general strain and spirit, it is 
favorable to virtue; and, therefore, though dramatic 
writers may, sometimes, like other writers, be guilty of 
improprieties, though they may fail in placing virtue 
forcibly in the due point of light, yet no reasonable 
person can deny tragedy to be a reasonable species 
of composition. Taking tragedies complexly, I am 
fully persuaded that the impressions left by them upon 
the mind are, on the whole, favorable to virtue and 
good dispositions. And, therefore, the zeal which some 
pious men have shown against the entertainment of the 
theatre must rest only on the abuse of comedy, which, 
indeed, has frequently been so great as to justify very 
severe censures against it. I am happy, however, to 
have it in my power to observe, that, of late years, a 
sensible reformation has begun to take place in English 
comedy.” 

Sir Philip Sidney says,f “ Comedy is an imitation 
of the common errors of our life, which the poet rep¬ 
resented in the most ludicrous sort that may be, so as it 
is impossible that any beholder can be content to be 
such a one. And little reason hath any man to say 
that men learn the evil by seeing it so set out: since 

* In the Essay De Augmentis Scientiarium. 

+ See his Defence of Poesie. 


SIR WALTER SCOTT ON THE STAGE. 437 


there is no man living, but, by the force truth has 
in his nature, no sooner seeth these men play their 
parts but wisheth them 4 in pistrinum ; ’ so that the right 
use of comedy will , I think , by nobody be blamed. And 
much less the high and excellent tragedy , that openeth 
the greatest wounds, and showeth forth the ulcers that 
are covered with tissue ; that maketh kings fear to 
be tyrants, and tyrants to manifest their tyrannical 
humors ; that, with stirring the effects of admiration and 
commiseration, teacheth the uncertainty of the world, 
and upon how weak foundations gilded roofs are builded.” 

Dr. Gregory, in his “ Legacy to his Daughter,” says, 
“ I know no entertainment that gives such pleasure to 
any person of sentiment or humor as the theatre.” 

Sir Walter Scott says,* “ The supreme Being, who 
claimed the seventh day as his own, allowed the other 
six days of the week for purposes merely human. 
When the necessity for daily labor is removed, and the 
call of social duty fulfilled, that of moderate and timely 
amusement claims its place, as a want inherent in our 
nature. To relieve this want, and fill up the mental 
vacancy, games are devised, books are written, music is 
composed, spectacles and plays are invented and ex¬ 
hibited. And if these last have a moral and virtuous 
tendency; if the sentiments expressed tend to rouse our 
love of what is noble, and our contempt of what is 
mean ; if they unite hundreds in a sympathetic admira¬ 
tion of virtue, abhorrence of vice, or derision of folly, — it 
will remain to be shown how far the spectator is more 
criminally engaged than if he had passed the evening in 
the idle gossip of society, in the feverish pursuits of arnbi- 

* Conclusion of the article Drama, in the Supplement to Encyc. 
Brit., vol. iii. p. 671. 


438 


AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF AN ACTRESS. 


tion, or in the unsated and insatiable struggle after 
gain — the grave employments of the present life but 
equally unconnected with our existence hereafter” Were 
it not presumption, I should be inclined to differ with 
the assertion in the last line; for can the manner in 
which we employ a single moment here be unconnected 
with our existence hereafter ? I think not. 

The testimony of such minds and such men in favor 
of the stage is at least worthy of attentive considera¬ 
tion. And, be it observed, they address themselves to 
the most conscientious Christians as much, or more, 
than to the man who makes no particular profession of 
religious faith. 

The stage, in almost all lands, and for a long series 
of years, has been protected and encouraged by govern¬ 
ments. Would this have been the case if legislators 
had not found it conducive to the general well being of 
communities, and even a medium of political as well 
as of social and moral utility ? 

Calcraft, in his able and scholarly Defence of the 
Stage, mentions the act of Parliament from which the 
patent of the present Theatre Royal in Dublin (men¬ 
tioned in an earlier chapter of these memoirs) is derived, 
as “ containing these words in the preamble — ‘ Whereas 
the establishing a well-regulated theatre in the city of 
Dublin, being the residence of the chief governor or 
governors of Ireland, will be productive of advantage, 
and tend to improve the morals of the people,’ &c. 
And the patent itself contains the royal intention and 
expectations distinctly expressed in these words : ‘ That 
the theatre, in future, may be instrumental to the cause 
of virtue and instruction to human life.’ After which 
follow various restrictions, forbidding any performances 
tending to profaneness, disloyalty, or indecency.’ , 


USE AND ABUSE. 


439 


If, then, the stage be an institution acknowledged by 
the protection of governments as much as any which a 
passion for literature, or art, or science among men has 
established, is there not more wisdom in helping to ele¬ 
vate and guide its operations than in denouncing and 
traducing the institution itself? 

Art is either right or it is wrong. The sanctioning 
voices of ages have pronounced it to be right. One 
branch of art includes the drama. Shall this branch be 
lopped off because the canker worm of evil has entered 
some of its fruit? Like sculpture, like painting, like 
music, like history, like the poem, the novel, — like 
every thing that ministers to faculties, which distinguish 
us from the brute creation, — the drama is either an 
instrument of good or evil, as it is rendered the one or 
the other by the use or abuse. This is the veriest 
truism. The theatre, like the press, is one of the most 
powerful organs for the diffusion of salutary or per¬ 
nicious influences. Vicious books are often printed; 
but shall we, therefore, extirpate the press ? Plays of 
questionable morality are sometimes enacted; but is 
that a cause for abolishing the stage — sacrificing for a 
temporary abuse the great and permanent use ? False 
doctrines, and what are called heresies, have been 
preached from many a pulpit, and have led to the most 
fearful consequences ; but shall the church therefore be 
calumniated ? At the bar, the most flagrant wrongs 
have grown out of the perversion of legal exposition ; 
but shall law, therefore, be banished from the land? 
Corrupt judges have given unjust sentences ; shall the 
bench, therefore, be denounced ? Physicians have de¬ 
stroyed instead of preserving life; shall the science of 
medicine, therefore, be set aside ? Forgeries have been 
committed; shall penmanship, therefore, be wholly for- 


440 


AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF AN ACTRESS. 


bidden ? And yet, if in one case abuse counteract use, 
why not in all ? 

A royal governor of Virginia (Sir William Berkeley) 
said,* “ I thank God that there are no free schools nor 
printing; and I hope we shall not have them these hun¬ 
dred years — for learning has brought disobedience, 
and heresies, and sects into the world, and printing has 
divulged them, and libels against the best governments. 
God keep us from both ! ” This assertion is literally 
true; but the royal governor looked but at one side of 
the question. The inveighers against the theatre do 
precisely the same. Because there are abuses, (most 
unquestionably separable from the use,) is that a wise 
or just argument for the holy indignation often expressed 
against the theatre and its upholders ? About as wise 
and as just as were Sir William Berkeley’s objections 
to the diffusion of knowledge. 

Reform the errors of the stage, if you would serve 
the cause of human progress. No manager will pro¬ 
duce plays that do not draw. It lies, then, with audi¬ 
ences to pronounce what representations shall receive 
their suffrages. 

“ The drama’s laws the drama’s patrons make.” 

But there has lately been a marked improvement in 
the class-of plays offered to the public. That manager 
would be a bold one, who, at the Howard AthensBum, in 
Boston, or at Niblo’s in New York, would produce a play 
of decided immoral tendency. His theatre would soon 
be closed, even without any loud denunciations from its 
outraged supporters. The community would forsake 
the establishment, and leave the “ beggarly account of 

* See Hildreth’s History of the United States, vol. i. p. 524. 


CLERICAL DRAMATISTS. 


441 


empty boxes” to proclaim their disapproval. Nu¬ 
merous other theatres in this country, as in England, 
are becoming more and more cautious in the choice of 
plays to be enacted within their walls. In England, the 
voice of the licenser is a check upon the representa¬ 
tion of immoral dramas ; in this country, the voice of 
the people is a far more powerful organ than that of any 
royal licenser in exerting a similar control. 

Passages, even in Shakspeare, which were listened to 
by audiences a few years ago without manifestations of 
displeasure, are now entirely omitted by actors, and, if 
spoken, would inevitably be hissed. I do not mean to 
assert that there are not passages left which ought to be 
expunged; but I believe that, in time, they will not be 
tolerated; and I know that it is the fault, not of the actor, 
but of the audience, if their ears are ever offended. The 
actor is supposed to speak only what is set down for him; 
and, according to the strict regulations of some theatres, 
he would be heavily fined if he deviated, upon his own 
responsibility, from the text. 

There are plays iii abundance which the most pious 
parent may take his children to witness with profit. 
Men who have won the highest distinctions, not through 
their genius only, but for the piety and purity of their 
lives, have devoted their talents to writing for the stage. 

More than two hundred English clergymen have been 
dramatic authors * 

The Archbishop Gregory Nazianzen wrote sacred 
dramas from the histories of the Old and New Testa¬ 
ment, which were enacted upon the stage at Constanti¬ 
nople. From that stage pagan plays were consequently 
banished.f 

* See Baker’s Biographia Dramatica. 
f See Warton’s History of Eng. Poet., vol. iii. p. 196. 


442 


AUTOBIOGRAPHY OP AN ACTRESS. 


Apollinaris, Bishop of Laodicea, wrote scriptural 
tragedies and comedies. 

In ancient times, mysteries and moralities were not 
only written, but acted, by the clergy. 

Sir Thomas More, the renowned statesman, both 
wrote and acted “ interludes,” as they were called. 

Milton wrote the tragic poem of Samson Agonist.es, 
and the masks of Arcades and Comus. The latter still 
keeps the stage. In the preface to his Samson Ago- 
nistes, he says, “ Tragedy, as it was anciently composed, 
hath ever been held the greatest, moralest, and most 
profitable of all other poems. Heretofore, men in 
highest dignity have labored not a little to be thought 
able to compose a tragedy.” 

Dr. Edward Young, the author of Night Thoughts, 
wrote the tragedies of the Revenge, Busiris, and the 
Brothers. The latter was enacted for the express pur¬ 
pose of adding the proceeds to the fund for the propa¬ 
gation of the gospel in foreign lands. 

The eloquent Rev. C. Maturin is the author of Ber¬ 
tram, (a favorite character of many distinguished tragedi¬ 
ans,) also of Manuel, Fredolfo, and Osmyn the Renegade. 

The Rev. H. Milman, author of the History of Chris¬ 
tianity, wrote Fazio, in which the genius of Miss 
O’Neil shone preeminent. He also wrote Belshazzar’s 
Feast, the Fall of Jerusalem, and the Martyr of 
Antioch. 

The Rev. Dr. Croly wrote Catiline, and a comedy, 
which has been represented with great success, entitled 
Pride shall have a Fall. 

The pious Addison wrote the tragedy of Cato, the 
comedy of the Drummer, and the opera of Rosamond. 

Dr. Johnson wrote the tragedy of Irene. 


USES OF THE DRAMA. 


443 


Coleridge wrote two tragedies, Remorse and Za- 
polya, and translated Schiller’s Wallenstein. 

Thomson, Goldsmith, Miss Hannah More, Miss 
Joanna Baillie, Miss Mitford, have all contributed to 
the drama. 

To these, did space permit, I might add the names 
of many other authors, as noted for their religious at¬ 
tributes as for their great gifts. 

The soundest philosophers have declared that intel¬ 
lectual recreation was needful to the well being and 
mental health of man, and they have pronounced the 
stage to be one of the highest sources of such recrea¬ 
tion. That rational amusement is a necessity of man’s 
nature, imperatively demanded, Pindar and Aristotle 
have given their testimony. The former says, “ Rest 
and enjoyment are universal physicians ; ” the latter, 
that “ it is impossible for men to live in continual 
labor — repose and games must succeed to cares and 
watching.” 

To unite amusement with instruction is to give relish 
to nourishment. The man whose energies are worn out 
with the daily struggles in life, when he sees portrayed 
the sterner battle of some other life on the mimic world 
called the stage, forgets the cares that press too heavily 
on his own heart and paralyze its strength; he passes 
out of the narrow circle in which his selfhood is hourly 
bound; his faculties are quickened and refreshed by 
listening to sparkling wit; the finest chords within his 
bosom are stirred by the breath of the poet’s inspirations. 
Emotions — devotional, heroic, patriotic, or soothingly 
domestic — sweep over his prostrate spirit, and lift it up 
from the contact with the dust of realities. He returns 
to his labors invigorated, strengthened, and elevated by 


444 


AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF AN ACTRESS. 


the relaxation. In our working-day community, it is to 
such men that the theatre performs one of its chief uses. 
But there are other uses which address themselves to 
the mass. Pope tells us, —• 

“ To make mankind, in conscious virtue bold, 

Live o’er each scene, and be what they behold; 

For this the Tragic Muse first trod the stage, 
Commanding tears to stream through every age.” * 

And even the stern Crabbe has said,f — 

“ Yet Virtue owns the Tragic Muse a friend ; 

Fable her means —morality her end. 

She makes the vile to Virtue yield applause, 

And own her sceptre while they break her laws ; 

For vice in others is abhorred of all, 

And villains triumph when the worthless fall.” 

Shakspeare, the great mind-reader, the most thorough 
grasper of all the subtleties of human character, wrote 
no fiction when he said, — 

“ Guilty creatures, sitting at a play, 

Have, by the very cunning of the scene, 

Been struck so to the soul, that presently 
They have proclaimed their malefactions.” 

The annals of the stage contain a number of startling 
instances where this has been literally the case. A 
remarkable one is recorded in the life of the English 
actor Ross. In my own comparatively brief experience 
upon the stage, I have been an eye witness to salutary 
effects of this description. One occasion I have related 
in an earlier chapter of these memoirs. If the acting of 
a play has been instrumental in causing “joy among the 

* Prologue to Addison’s Tragedy of Cato, by Alexander Pope. 
Bell’s British Theatre. 

f The Library, a Poem. 


TRUE POSITION OF ACTORS. 


445 


angels of heaven over one sinner that repenteth,” what 
stronger proof can there be that the theatre is a useful 
institution ? 

If the lingering abuses in our theatres are to be 
reformed, it can only be done by the mediation of good 
men, “not so absolute in goodness as to forget what 
human frailty is,” who, discarding the illiberal spirit 
which denounces without investigating, will first examine 
the reasons of existing abuses, then help to remedy them 
by their own presence amongst the audience. 

That the very worst abuse with which any theatre 
can be taxed may be abolished, has been proved at the 
Howard Athenaeum, in Boston, the Museum, and, indeed, 
all the theatres in that city, for five years, and at Nib- 
lo’s, in New York, for a period even longer. I allude 
to the demoralizing effect of allowing any portion of the 
theatre to be set aside for the reception of a class who 
do not come to witness the play. I believe there have 
been other theatres in this country where this outrage 
upon morality is not tolerated, and the establishments 
have been as prosperous as those above mentioned. But 
this is a difficult topic for a woman to touch upon. 

I cannot close these remarks upon the drama and the 
stage without a few wmrds on the true position of actors. 
On this subject very erroneous impressions exist in the 
minds of those who do not frequent theatres. They are 
apt to look upon the actor as belonging to a distinct 
portion of the community, dwelling on the outer side 
of a certain conventional pale of society, which he is 
allowed to enter only by courtesy, unless it is broken 
through by the majesty of transcendent talents. 

Let us examine his social and political state in ancient 
times when the stage first sprang into existence. The 


446 


AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF AN ACTRESS. 


profession of an actor was looked upon as honorable 
among the Greeks. Some of the highest offices of the 
state were held by players. -ZEschylus, who framed the 
regular drama, held command at Marathon under Mil- 
tiades. He was at once an actor and author. Sophocles 
was a man of high rank, and served under the great 
Pericles. He was raised to the office of archon. He 
appeared in his own tragedies, and sang on the stage to 
the music of the lyre. Euripides, who also acted in his 
own productions, was a distinguished officer. 

The actor Neoptolemus, who was also a tragic poet, 
was an ambassador in an important mission. 

Aristodemus was also employed on a momentous em¬ 
bassy. At the solicitation of Demosthenes he received 
the reward of a golden crown, bestowed for the faithful 
administration of public affairs. 

Cicero himself was the intimate friend of Roscius, his 
early tutor. The great orator says of the equally great 
actor, “The excellences of Roscius became proverbial; 
and the greatest praise that could be given to men of 
genius in any particular profession was, ‘ that each was 
a Roscius in his art/ ” 

Laelius, called “ the wise,” and Scipio Africanus the 
younger, were the warm friends and associates of the 
actor Terence. 

Julius Caesar mentions Menander and Terence with 
respectful admiration. 

The noble Brutus thought it was no waste of time to 
journey from Rome to Naples solely to see an excellent 
company of comedians. Their performances delighted 
him so much that he sent them to Rome with letters to 
Cicero. They were honored with the latter’s immediate 
patronage. 


A WORD OF FAREWELL. 


447 


Actors in all ages have been the especial favorites of 
monarchs and high dignitaries. In modern times, from 
Mrs. Siddons down to the present day, they have, in 
common with other artists, been received in the highest 
society, and been treated with marked distinction. 

The stage, at this moment, is graced by members of the 
profession who have been the honored guests of nobles, 
and whom the magnates of more than one land have 
been proud to welcome at their firesides. The odium 
which has attached itself to some whose talents were as 
a brilliant setting which lacked the centre gem of para¬ 
mount value can cast no more real blemish upon those 
who have not merited the same reproach than the 
despotism of one king can darken the reign of his 
successors. 

If I have somewhat warmly pleaded the cause of the 
stage and the actor, I hope my testimony has been given 
as though I stood in the courts of Areopagus, where no 
flowers of rhetoric were permitted to adorn and .falsely 
color the pleader’s simple statement. I have looked 
upon the citation of facts as my strongest arguments. 
These, I think, will be patiently heard and justly weighed 
by the impartial tribunal of the American public, before 
which I stand to add my feeble voice to those already 
raised against the wrongs received by the stage, the 
drama, and the profession. 

To the members of that profession, whose labors and 
honors I shall so soon cease to share, I would say, in 
bidding them farewell, that there are many amongst 
them whom I esteem, some to whom I am warmly 
attached, and more whose career I shall watch with 
anxious interest. I would beg them to believe that I 
sympathize in their toils — 1 comprehend their sacri- 


448 


AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF AN ACTRESS. 


fices — I appreciate their exertions — I respect their 
virtues; and I cherish the hope, that, in ceasing to be 
ranked amongst their number, I shall ribt wholly be 
forgotten by them. 


In writing these memoirs, although they were ex¬ 
pressly designed for publication, I have endeavored to 
divest myself of all remembrance of the reader, in the 
same degree that I should mentally abstract and sepa¬ 
rate myself from an audience while interpreting a 
character upon the stage. By accomplishing this de¬ 
sired end, I have been enabled to give a more unre¬ 
served transcript of events than would otherwise have 
been possible. 

In an autobiography, there seems a degree of egotism 
in the constant use of the first person singular, from 
which I have in vain sought some method of escape. 
For any consequent trenching upon the borders of good 
taste, I hope to be pardoned as for an unavoidable lite¬ 
rary trespass. I have endeavored to write a simple 
and faithful narrative — unambitious, unembellished — 
“ nothing extenuating,” and, assuredly, “ setting down 
nothing in malice.” It is for the public to judge how 
imperfectly I may have executed my task. I lay down 
my pen with a sense of relief, which is in itself a guer¬ 
don ; for I have fulfilled my promise. 

“ Leave here the pages with long musings curled, 

And write me new my future’s epigraph ! ” 











Deacidified using the Bookkeeper process. 
Neutralizing agent: Magnesium Oxide 
Treatment Date: Sept. 2009 

PreservationTechnologies 

A WORLD LEADER IN COLLECTIONS PRESERVATION 

111 Thomson Park Drive 
Cranberry Township, PA 16066 
(724) 779-2111 


















































































